'  "'•••:•  <s    ••   •        •    ••;::  ••      *~r 


t 


Callings  from  the  Confederacy. 


A  COLLECTION    OK   SOUTHERN   POEMS,  ORIGINAL  AND 

OTHERS,  POPULAR  DURING  THE  WAR  BETWEEN 

THE   STATES,  AND  INCIDENTS  AND 

FACTS  WORTH  RECALLING. 


1862-1 


INCLUDING  THE  DOGGEREL  OF  THE  CAMP,  AS  WELL 
AS  TENDER  TRIBUTE  TO  THE  DEAD. 


'  'From  grave  to  gay,  from  reverend  to  severe." 


Compiled  by 

NORA  FONTAINE  M.  DAVIDSON, 
Petersburg,  ^a. 


WASHINGTON,  D.  C: 

The  Rufus  H.  Darby  Printing  Co. 

1903. 


33 


NOUA    FONTAINE  CALHOrX.   A    UEIM.'ESENTATIVE 


"Oh!  yes,  I  am  a  Southern  girl, 

And  glory  in  the  name, 
I  boast  It  with  far  greater  pride 

Than  glitt'ring  wealth  or  fame." 


FROM  SAX  ANTONIO,  TEXAS. 
OF  THE  FAMILY  OF  J.   C.   CALUOUX,    "  FATHER  OF  SECESSION." 


I 


CONTENTS. 

Dedication     9 

Introduction    11 

The  Confederate  Dead  at  Arlington 12 

Illustration    (Danger  from   Shells) 13 

Petersburg  on  the  Appomattox 15 

"  Virginia  "    (A.  D.   1862) 20 

To  the  Tories  of  Virginia  (Union  Men) 21 

God  Save  the  South 22 

Hurrying    On 23 

Rebels    24 

A  Poem  for  the  Times 25 

Jackson    26 

Farewell  to  Brother  Jonathan 27 

Farewell  Forever  to  the  Star  Spangle  Banner 28 

He  Won  the  Boots 28 

Farewell  to  Yankee  Doodle 29 

The  South's  Appeal  to  Washington 30 

Call  All  !   Call  All 31 

Lines  to  the  Southern  Banner 32 

The  Bonnie  Blue  Flag 33 

Our  Flag — the  Stars  and  Bars 34 

A    Yankee    Shibboleth 34 

Our    Cause 35 

The  Battle  Call 36 

Creation   of  Dixie 39 

Impudent    Yankees 39 

Where  is  the  Rebel  Fatherland 40 

We  Come  !   We  Come 41 

Secession,  or  Uncle  Sam's  Troublesome  Daughters 42 

Female    Heroism 44 

Oh,  I'm  a  Good  Old  Rebel 45 

A   Southern  Battle  Hymn 46 

Incident  in  General  Lee's  Life 46 

Ordered    Away 47 

Gone  to  the  Battlefield 48* 

Southern  "  Rally  Round  the  Flag  " 49 

Virginia's   Call  to  Arms 50 

Song  of  the  Southern  Soldier 51 

Maryland,   My   Maryland 52 

Hurrah    53 

The  Heart  of  Louisiana 54 

Missouri     55 

There's  Life  in  the  Old  Land  Yet 55 

Texas   War   Song 56 

Let  Him  Be  Free 56 

Confederate    Song 57 

Jefferson  Davis'  True  Nature 57 

Our    Lee 58 

Witty    Southern    Girl 59 

Lines  Written  by  the  Earl  of  Derby  On  General  Lee 60 

The  Jacket  of  Grey 60 

Robert  B.   Lee 61 

Petition  for  the  Pardon  of  President  Davis 62 

War  Fact  of  Alabama 63 


CONTENTS— Continued. 

The  Prisoner  of  State 64 

Just  Before  the  Battle,  Mother  (Parody) 65 

In  the  Fortress  By  the  Sea 66 

The  Private  Soldier 67 

Stonewall  Jackson  Under  the  Table 67 

Stonewall  Jackson  Guards  the  Camp  To-Night 68 

Stonewall  Jackson  at  Kernstown 69 

Post  Bellum  Riches 70 

Our   Stonewall's   Grave 71 

Tribute  to  Gen.  Turner  Ashby 71 

Mosby  and  His  Men 72 

Morgan's  War  Song 73 

The  Volunteers  to  the  Melish 74 

The  Battle  of  St.  Paul's 75 

Yankee  Officer  Captured  by  Virginia  Girls 77 

Battle  of  9th  of  June,  1864,  Petersburg,  Va 78 

The  Battle  of  Bethel  Church 85 

The  Battle  of  New  Market — "Robbing  the  Cradle" 86 

Our    Left — Manassas 89 

Manassas    89 

Home   (By  a  Confederate  Officer) 90 

Not  Fond  of  Bullets 91 

Female    Soldiers 91 

The  Last  Martial  Button 92 

The   Southern   Women 92 

The  Cap  That  Poor  Henderson  Wore 93 

A  Confederate   Valentine 94 

The  Song  of  the  Sword 95 

"My  Friend" — Dedicated  to  "Infldelia" 96 

Lorena     '. 98 

Men  in  Lace  and  Braid 99 

All's  Noise  Along  the  Appomattox 99 

Upi   Dei-Di 100 

Sweethearts  and  War 101 

In  the  Land  Where  We  Were  Dreaming 102 

A  Brave  Girl's  Fate 104 

Fight   On!    Fight   Ever 105 

A  Private  in  the  Ranks 106 

Butler    107 

A  Georgia  Volunteer 108 

Richmond   on  the  James 109 

The  Warrior's   Steed Ill 

The  Right  Above  the  Wrong 114 

She  Saved  Her  Bacon , 115 

A   Confederate   Letter 115 

Recruiting  in  Europe 116 

True  to  the  Gray 117 

Mother  Would  Comfort  Me 118 

Civile  Bellum  (Brother  Against  Brother) 118 

The  Old  Gray  Coat 119 

Dreaming  in  the  Tenches 121 

The  Printers  of  Virginia  to  "Old  Abe" 122 

The    Despot's    Song 122 

The    Shenandoah    Sufferers 123 

Virginia    in    1863 124 

Commercial    Report — Starvation    Time 125 

Why  Should  the  South  Rejoice? 126 


CONTENTS— Continued. 

Vanished    Hopes , 127 

Our   Southern  Land 128 

Unusual    War    Experience 130 

The   Virginia    Ladies 133 

Somebody's    Darling 133 

Dates    of    Secession 134 

First  Southern  Hospital 135 

The  Unknown  Confederate  Soldier 137 

Our  Noble   Dead 138 

The   Confederate   Dead 139 

Our  Heroic  Dead 141 

They  Are  Not  Dead 142 

What  the  Heart  of  the  Young  Girl  Said 144 

The   Dying   Soldier 145 

The  Wards  of  the  Nation 145 

The   Confederate   Dead 146 

The  Soldier  Who  Died  To-day 148 

Cockade  City  Ladies 149 

Lizzie  Hayden's  Letter 149 

Historical   Fact  About   Decoration 150 

Mammy's  View  of  Freedom 151 

A  Newly  Elected  Representative  Under  14th  Amendment.  152 

The  Old  Church  on  the  Hill  (Blandford) 154 

The  First  Memorial  Day 155 

Decoration  Day  Origin 156 

A    Fragment    from    Description    of    First    Confederate 

Memorial    Day 160 

Decorating  the  Graves  of  the  Confederate  Dead 163 


Dedication. 

This  book  is  dedicated  to  all  who  love  the  South,  but 
especially  to  the  children  of  Miss  Davidsons  School,  who 
untiringly  contributed  to  the  funds— so  much  needed— for 
hospital  and  other  work.  These  children  gave  entertain 
ments  without  number,  and  raised $IOO.OO  for  the  establish 
ment  of  the  first  Confederate  hospital  in  Petersburg.  She 
remembers  with  pride  and  gratitude  the  efforts  of  these 
scholars,  many  of  them  now  staid  men  and  women.  They 
were  literally 

"  First  to  rise  against  oppression  ; 
First  and  foremost  in  secession — 
In  this  glorious  Southern  land." 


Introduction. 

There  has  been  much  given  to  the  public  in  the  way 
of  scraps  collected  during  the  war;  yet  there  is  quite 
enough  interest  to  read  with  delight  anything  pertaining 
to  the  "  old  time "  that  tried  men's  souls  and  killed 
their  bodies.  Enough  can  never  be  said  of  "  that  mar 
tyr  band  which  hallowed  our  land.  In  a  cause  they  died 
to  save  for  us." 

Many  veterans  of  the  heroic  stuggle  are  with  us  yet, 
and  to  their  children  we  give  the  contents  of  this  book, 
written  only  in  the  desire  to  portray  by  clippings,  verses, 
etc.,  the  trend  of  the  times  and  the  run  of  the  day. 

Many  of  the  most  beautiful  and  pathetic  productions 
in  the  way  of  verse  are  left  out  from  the  fact  that  other 
books,  on  Confederate  days,  contain  them,  and  they  are 
well  known  to  most  people.  The  book  is  not  to  accen 
tuate  the  intelligence,  tenderness  or  nobility  of  the 
South — taat  needs  no  herald.  These  are  only  the  cull- 
ings  that  were  obtained  as  the  times  went  along.  We 
have  placed  here  the  doggerel  of  the  camp  and  the  senti 
ment  of  the  uneducated  private,  who,  like  Cincinnatus, 
was  taken  from  digging  in  the  field.  Many  a  letter  of 
gratitude  expressed  in  crude  language  was  sent  to  the 
benefactress  who  nursed  him  through  wound  or  fever, 
and  some  were  bold  enough  to  avow  emotions  of  even 
more  than  gratitude.  Many  who  nursed  through  these 
hospitals  recall  the  gifts  of  rings  cut  from  dimes,  books 
made  of  clay  from  "The  Crater,"  and  other  souvenirs 
which  were  the  best  that  could  be  given  in  the  absence 
of  such  things  as  had  been  heretofore  imported  from  the 
North  or  foreign  countries. 

The  periods  of  hesitency,  allegiance  to  the  Old  Union, 
the  flag  of  our  fathers,  secession,  enthusiasm,  patriot 
ism,  battle,  imprisonment,  starvation,  sacrifice,  the  end 
are  given  in  succession 

In  the  last  part  of  the  volume  are  found  types  of  the 
old  and  new  darkey,  bringing  in  the  effect  of  Recon 
struction  and  the  Fourteenth  Amendment. 

The  book  closes  with  the  loving  tribute  to  our  dead 
in  the  first  Confederate  Memorial. 


"The  Confederate  Dead  at  Arlington." 

- 

Through  the  interest  of  President  McKinley,  the  Con 
federate  graves  at  Arlington  have  been  made  beautiful. 
There  is  no  reason  why  these  men  who  died  in  and 
around  Washington  in  the  hospital  or  battle  should  not 
rest  here.  It  was  Gen.  Lee's  home,  and  it  seems  a 
lovely  tribute  from  the  North,  that  some  of  his  old 
soldiers  should  lie  here,  buried  with  those  who  fought 
against  him.  The  graves  are  beautifully  kept — it  is  the 
one  act  which  makes  us  a  common  country.  Many 
Southern  women  resorted  there  on  last  Memorial  Day, 
and  were  assisted  in  every  way  in  the  loving  task  of 
decorating  the  graves  by  those  who  wore  the  blue.  Mrs. 
Logan  beautifully  writes  of  this  :  "  Near  by  the  graves 
of  those  who  wore  the  blue  are  hundreds  of  mounds, 
that  cover  all  that  was  mortal  of  those  who  wore  the 
grey,  and  it  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  traits  of  forgiv 
ing  humanity  that  none  of  them  is  overlooked  on  the 
most  sacred  day  in  the  American  calendar.  In  '  Dixie  ' 
they  garland  with  one  hand  the  mounds  above  the  ashes 
of  the  Northern  soldier,  while  with  the  other  they  strew 
beautiful  blossoms  on  the  graves  of  their  own  heroes. 
We,  of  the  North,  do  the  same,  for  they  were  all  heroes, 
each  one  dying  for  the  cause  he  thought  was  right.  *  *  * 
The  result,  as  seen  to-day,  shows  that  the  people  of 
this  country  have  been  through  cleansing  fires  and  have 
come  forth  the  purest  gold." 

No  one  individual  did  more  to  obliterate  old  lines  than 
William  McKinley,  who  raised  the  arch  of  peace  for  all 
by  following  himself  the  "  Prince  of  Peace." 


UKSIDKNCK  ON   BOLLINGBROKE  STJtEET,  SHOWINd   I)A\(iEK  OF 
RESIDENTS  IN  THIS  VICINITY. 


CULLINGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY.          15 


PETERSBURG  ON  THE  APPOMATTOX.'   '. 


Her  Traditions  and  People — Indian  Ancestry — Old  Homes  and 
Birthplaces — The  Count  Rochambeau — General  Lee  a 
Worshipper  at  St.  Paul's — Kautz's  Raid — An  Incident  of 
War — Women  of  Petersburg,  Their  Patriotism  and  Zeal — 
The  Fall  of  the  City — The  Celebration  of  First  Memorial 
Inaugurated  Through  the  Efforts  of  Miss  Davidson. 

The  whole  South  should  love  Petersburg — her  history  and 
traditions,  for  it  was  from  this  city,  and  its  vicinity,  that  the 
ancestors  of  many  Southerners  diverged  to  their  respective 
States,  and,  even  now,  begin  their  genealogical  charts  from 
English  ancestry  who  settled  in  this  environment.  Here,  too, 
their  Indian  ancestress  bathed  her  unsandalled  feet  in  the 
Appomattox,  and,  as  tradition  has  it,  washed  her  swarthy  face 
in  a  basin  hewn  out  of  solid  rock — the  same  which  now  stands 
as  a  monument  to  native  ingenuity.  Near  by  are  the  birth 
places  of  John  Randolph,  of  Roanoke,  Theodric  and  Richard 
Bland,  and  the  first  home  of  the  decendants  of  Rolfe  and 
Pocahontas.  This  English  and  Indian  connection  produced  a 
sturdy  and  reliable  people,  who  were  largely  responsible  for 
the  conduct  of  the  political  and  social  affairs  of  the  early 
colony.  The  Count  Rochambeau,  whose  beautiful  statue,  the 
gift  of  his.  people,  stands  in  Jackson  Square,  in  our  National 
Capital,  was  entertained  by  its  stately  dames;  and  in  later 
times  still,  a  soldier  of  great  repute,  whom  other  countries 
class  as  first,  and  the  South  country  claims  as  best,  wor 
shipped  with  her  people  on  Sabbath  days,  as  he  served  faith 
fully  the  admiring  people  who  placed  him  at  the  head  of  their 
new-made  soldiery.  Those  who  attended  St.  Paul's  Church 
on  Union  Street,  recall  his  erect  figure  as  he  walked  up  the 
aisle  accompanied  by  his  Adjutant  General,  Colonel  Walter 
Taylor — every  inch  a  soldier — yet  how  humbly  he  walked 
with  his  God.  Peace  to  his  noble  soul!  On  one  of  the  hills 
beyond  Petersburg  stands  old  Blandford  Church,  or  rather  its 
ruins.  No  worshippers  gather  there  ;  the  dignity  of  silence 
chronicles  the  past;  the  songsters  of  Heaven  chant  contin 
ually  the  requiems  in  pace.  This  old  English  Church  marks 
the  resting  place  of  many  families  of  olden  days.  In  later 
days  it  bared  its  breast  to  a  storm  of  shot  and  shell  as  it  lay 
in  the  pathway  of  the  storm.  The  remains  of  many  of  those 


16  CULLINGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY. 

who  fought  and  fell  within  its  environs  are  buried  beneath 
its  sacred  soil.  The  battle  of  the  Crater  was  fought  not  more 
tkan^a  mile  away.  On  the  walls  of  the  old  church  are  the 
names  of  some  of  Petersburg's  noblest  and  best  sons,  who 
fell  in  defense  of  their  altars  and  firesides.  A  cavalry  raid 
under  General  Kautz  (on  June  9,  1864),  threatened  the  de 
struction  of  the  town  by  burning  and  pillage,  and  the  fathers 
and  sons,  who  had  been  organized  into  a  home  guard,  resisted 
and  repelled  this  finely  appointed  and  equipped  body  of  Fed 
eral  cavalry,  but  not  without  great  loss  of  life  on  the  part  of 
these  old  and  infirm  men  and  boys,  as  ten  or  more  of  their 
number  were  kiled  or  wounded.  The  last  strong  effort  for  the 
establishment  of  the  Confederacy  was  made  at  Petersburg. 
For  two  years  the  trenches  were  filled  with  dead  and  dying. 
For  two  years  was  the  city  pelted  with  shot  and  shell.  These 
missives  of  war  fell  everywhere.  Humble  homes  and  stately 
buildings  suffered  alike  from  the  devastating  cannonading. 
On  one  occasion  a  shell  tore  into  the  side  of  a  dwelling  and 
demolished  every  article  of  furniture  in  the  parlor.  A  fair 
belle,  only  a  few  moments  before,  had  been  sitting  on  one  of 
the  chairs,  whispering  the  sweet  words  of  encouragement  that 
only  love  can  say  to  her  soldier-boy  lover,  and  had  hardly 
emerged  from  the  room  when  she  returned  to  a  chaos  of  dust 
and  confusion.  The  officer,  who  had  scarcely  reached  the 
next  street,  hearing  the  crash  came  back  to  find  his  lady-love 
unscathed  from  "the  battle."  Servants  were  killed  in  kitchens 
attending  to  their  work.  Churches  and  buildings  defaced  and 
animals  killed. 

"And  the  little  children  gathered, 

Their  faces  purely  raised 
Just  for  a  wondering  moment, 

As  the  huge  bombs  whirled  and  blazed, 
Then  turning  with  silvery  laughter 

To  the  sports  which  children  love, 
Thrice  mailed  in  the  sweet,  instinctive  thought, 
That  the  good  God  watched  above. 

Yet  the  hailing  bolts  fell  faster." 

The  citizenry  of  the  city  surrendered  as  completely  to  the 
occupancy  of  the  Confederate  Army  as  did  General  Lee  to  his 
Federal  opponents  two  years  later  at  Appomattox.  Every 
heart  was  a  home,  every  house  a  hospital  for  the  sick  and 
wounded.  The  line  of  defense,  in  fortifications  and  breast 
works,  was  unfortunately  constructed  too  near  the  town,  else 
the  shells  of  the  enemy  would  not  have  come  so  near.  Had 
our  line  of  defense  been  further  removed,  the  line  of  offense 
would  have  been  proportionately  further  away.  This  mistake. 


COL.   .JOSKl'IF    P.   MIXKTUKE,  4  T  ST  VA.    IXFAXTRY — MAIIOXK's  ()I,D  liJUCiA.DK. 


CULLING -S  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY.  19 

along  with  many  such,was  made  in  the  hurry  of  our  unprepara- 
tion  for  war.  Men  were  called  upon  to  revive  arts  and  pro 
fessions  long  unpracticed,  as  the  South  was  following  pastoral 
and  peaceful  pursuits.  "  The  furrow  did  oft  to  the  cycle 
yield,"  and  her  sons  had  long  before  "beaten  their  swords 
into  ploughshares." 

To  the  women  of  Petersburg  a  special  mede  of  honor  is  due, 
as  the  two  years'  siege  of  Petersburg  was  her  daughters' 
opportunity,  and  well  was  it  used.  Every  attribute  of  woman, 
so  much  needed  at  that  time,  was  used  to  the  full.  There 
was  no  "lack  of  nursing  or  dearth  of  woman's  tears" — her 
tenderness,  sympathy  and  prayers  were  found  at  the  bedside 
of  the  sick  and  wounded  soldiers,  nor  left  she  his  body  to  the 
dead-house  ungarlanded  and  unwept.  Among  these  good 
women  none  labored  more  zealously  than  Miss  Davidson,  the 
compiler  of  these  verses  and  incidents.  She  is  an  educator 
of  high  repute,  and  her  scholars  are  filling  places  of  trust  in 
all  sections  of  the  country.  The  school  of  which  she  was 
principal  gave  concerts  and  entertainments,  patriotic  and 
otherwise,  for  the  help  of  the  Confederate  cause.  Even  after 
the  town  was  under  martial  law  Miss  Davidson  continued 
these  so-called  rebel  entertainments  against  the  advice  of  the 
Union  officers.  They  were  generous  enough  not  to  suppress 
this  "unreconstructed  rebel"  as  they  saw  in  it  only  an  intense 
love  of  country  and  State  pride.  Miss  Davidson  was  the  first 
woman  in  the  South  to  plan  a  processional  memorial  exercise, 
and  from  her  untiring  zeal  in  this  matter  has  sprung  a  Na 
tional  reverence  for  those  who  died  on  either  side.  Mrs. 
General  Logan,  in  a  letter  to  the  Washington  Post,  on  memo 
rial  time  of  this  year,  very  frankly  ascribes  to  the  woman  of 
Petersburg  the  idea  of  a  National  Memorial.  She  was  in 
Petersburg  with  her  husband  visiting  the  old  battle  grounds, 
in  the  early  Spring  of  1866,  and  recalls  seeing  these  women 
tenderly  wreathing  the  bivouac  of  the  dead,  and  on  returning 
to  Washington,  at  her  sugestion,  General  Logan  issued  his 
general  order  for  a  similar  exercise,  to  be  observed  for  all 
time,  once  a  year.  Miss  Davidson's  school,  and  some  patri 
otic  co-workers,  were  the  originators  of  this  beautiful  custom. 


20  CUL LINGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY. 

VIRGINIA    (A.    D.    1862). 

Is  Virginia  a  State?  Is  she  a  Territory?  Is  she  a  combi 
nation  of  each?  We  are  unable  to  answer  this  question.  We 
can  emphatically  pronounce,  however,  we  believe,  that  she  is 
not  a  State  in  the  same  sense  we  understand  the  term,  and 
in  the  sense  the  term  was  understood  when  Virginia,  through 
her  statesmen,  entered  into  the  Federal  league,  and,  by  her 
statesmen,  prepared  the  fundamental  laws  for  all  the  States 
comprising  the  United  States.  We  have  the  symbols  of  State 
sovereignty — a  Governor,  a  Legislature,  a  Judiciary — yet  it 
is  the  veriest  nominalism,  for,  really  and  in  fact,  we  cannot 
move  one  inch  except  at  the  will  of  another  power,  which  has 
illegitimately  established  itself  a  guardian  over  us.  We  have 
not  the  advantages  of  a  State  by  reason  of  its  power,  or  its 
political  condition;  we  are  not  allowed  the  advantages  of  a 
Territory  by  reason  of  its  weakness.  All  the  good  which  flows 
from  the  status  of  a  State,  or  the  status  of  a  Territory  we  are 
deprived  of;  all  the  evils,  which  appertain  to  both,  is  most 
lavishly  bestowed  on  us.  We  cannot,  we  confess,  see  one 
streak  of  delight  gleam  through  the  prison  bars  of  servitude; 
but  we  do  ask,  as  a  matter  of  candor,  at  any  rate,  that  if  Vir 
ginia  is  to  be  extinct,  some  other  name  will  be  attached  to 
her  domain,  and  that  we  shall  not  forever  have  placed  before 
us  the  influences  and  reminiscences  of  past  glory  and  freedom 
suggested  by  the  magic  word  of  Virginia,  the  synonym  of  all 
that  is  elevated  in  politics  and  consecrated  in  patriotism, 
when  all  that  is  around,  about  and  upon  us  is  a  sad  realiza 
tion  of  tyranny  such  as  Robespierre  dared  not  have  exercised 
in  his  palmiest  days.  If  Virginia  is  a  provincial  appendage, 
blot  out  the  word  forever.  It  should  never  be  applied  to  the 
country  of  any  people  that  wear  the  irons  of  servitude  or  in 
equality.  If  the  people  of  the  "The  Old  Dominion"  are  to 
wear  the  yoke,  call  their  Territory,  the  ground  upon  which 
they  tread,  by  the  most  disgraceful  epithet  English  letters 
can  spell  out;  call  it  Sumner,  call  it  Stevens  or  do  worse — 
call  it  the  name  of  some  vile  traitor  born  upon  the  soil 
(Scott),  and  who  deserted  to  the  enemy's  camp  in  the  dark 
hours  of  distress  and  danger.  If  we  are  free,  then  let  Vir 
ginia  and  Virginia's  mottoes  flourish  and  live  forever.  If  we 
are  to  be  slaves — call  our  country  by  a  term  adapted  to  that 
condition. 

Since  writing  the  above,  that  which  is  called  a  Congress, 
which  presides  with  such  demoniacal  authority  at  Washing 
ton,  has  decided  the  fate  of  the  States.  We  are  slaves — yea, 
worse,  we  are  serfs. 


CULLINGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY,          21 

TO  THE  TORIES  OF  VIRGINIA. 

(Union  Men.) 

In  the  ages  gone  by  when  Virginia  arose 

Her  honor  and  truth  to  maintain, 
Her  sons  round  her  banner  would  rally  with  pride, 

Determined  to  save  it  from  stain. 

No  heart  in  those  days  was  so  false  or  so  cold 

That  it  did  not  exquisitely  thrill, 
With  a  love  and  devotion  that  none  would  withhold 

Until  death  the  proud  bosom  should  chill. 

Was  Virginia  in  danger?  fast,  fast  to  her  call 
From  the  mountains  e'en  unto  the  sea 
Came  up  her  brave  children,  their  mother  to  shield, 
And  to  die  that  she  still  might  be  free. 

And  a  coward  was  he,  who  when  danger's  dark  cloud, 

Overshadowed  Virginia's  fair  sky, 
Turned  a  deaf,  careless  ear,  when  her  summons  was  heard, 

Or  refused  for  her  honor  to  die. 

Oh,  proud  are  the  memories  of  day's  that  are  past, 

And  richly  the  heart  thrills  when  o'er 
We  think  of  the  brave,  who,  their  mother  to  save, 

Have  died  as  they  lived — without  fear. 

But  now  can  it  be  that  Virginia's  name 
Fails  to  waken  the  homage  and  love 
Of  e'en  one  of  her  sons?  Oh,  cold,  cold  must  be 
The  heart  that  her  name  will  not  move. 

When  she  rallies  for  freedom  and  justice  and  right, 

Will  her  sons  with  a  withering  sneer, 
Revile  her  and  taunt  her  with  treason  and  shame, 

Or  say  she  is  moved  by  foul  fear. 

Will  they  tell  her  her  glories  have  fled  or  grown  pale, 
That  she  bends  to  a  tyrant  in  shame? 
Will  they  trample  her  glorious  flag  in  the  dust, 
Or  load  with  reproaches  her  name? 

Will  they  fly  from  her  shores,  or  desert  her  in  need? 

Will  Virginians  their  back  ever  turn 
On  their  mother,  and  fly  when  danger  is  nigh 

And  her  claim  to  their  fealty  spurn  ? 

False,  false  is  the  heart  that  refuses  to  yield 

The  love  that  Virginia  doth  claim, 
And  base  is  the  tongue  that  could  utter  the  lie, 

That  charges  his  mother  with  shame. 


22  CULLINGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY. 

A  blot  on  her  'scutcheon,  a  stain  on  her  name, 

Our  heart's  blood  should  wipe  it  away! 
We  should  die  for  her  honor  and  count  it  a  boon 

Her  mandates  to  heed  and  obey. 

But  men,  oh,  never  let  human  tongue  say 

She  is  false  to  her  honor  or  fame. 
She  is  true  to  her  past — to  her  future  she's  true, 

And  Virginia  has  never  known  shame. 

Then  shame  on  the  dastard,  the  recreant  fool 
That  would  strike  in  the  dark  at  her  now; 

That  would  coldly  refuse  her  fair  name  to  uphold; 
That  would  basely  prove  false  to  his  vow. 

But  no  it  cannot,  it  can  never  be  true 

That  Virginia  claims  one  single  child 
That  would  ever  prove  false  to  his  home  or  his  God, 

Or  be  with  foul  treason  denied. 

And  the  man  that  could  succor  her  enemies  now, 

Even  though  on  her  soil  he  were  born, 
Is  so  base,  so  inhuman,  so  false  and  so  vile, 

That  Virginia  disowns  him  with  scorn. 

— Richmond  Examiner. 


GOD  SAVE  THE  SOUTH. 

God  bless  our  Southern  land, 
Guard  our  beloved  land, 

God  save  the  South. 
Make  us  victorious, 
Happy  and  glorious, 
Spread  Thy  shield  over  us, 

God  save  the  South. 

God  of  our  sires  arise! 
Scatter  our  enemies, 

Who  mock  Thy  truth. 
Confound  their  politics, 
Frustrate    their    knavish    tricks, 
In  Thee  our  faith  we  fix, 

God  save  the  South. 

In  the  fierce  battle  hour, 
With  Thine  almighty  power, 

Assist  our  youth. 
May  they  with  victory  crowned, 
Joining  one  choral  round, 
With  heart  and  voice  resound, 

God  save  the  South! 


CULLINGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY.          23 

"  HURRYING    ON." 

Hurrying  on  in  the  midst  of  excitement, 
Pushing  extravagant  projects  through; 

Few  of  us  know  or  pause  e'en  to  question — 
Even  to  ask  where  we're  hurrying  to. 

Hurrying  on  over  blessings  unheeded, 

Chasing  some  joy — like  the  butterfly  gone; 

What  is  the  good  of  this  wonderful  frenzy; 
What  is  the  use  of  this  hurrying  on. 

We  have  been  hurrying  on  from  our  cradles, 
What  but  its  shadows  have  we  for  the  past; 

We  are  still  hurrying  on  as  expectant — 
What  shall  we  get  by  our  hurry  at  last? 

Graves  are  so  thick  that  we  cannot  well  miss  them, 
Going  with  only  the  clothes  we  shall  wear; 

WThere  shall  be  then  all  we're  hurrying  after; 
What  shall  we  have  with  our  hurry  when  there. 

Hurrying  on  in  the  wake  of  the  phantoms, 

Conjured  alone  in  the  fever  of  haste; 
Hurrying  on  with  extravagant  projects 

Little  reck  we  of  the  treasures  we  waste. 

Little  we  know  of  the  diamond  moments 
All  to  be  gathered  and  garnered  in  store, 

Making  our  worthy  or  worthless  possessions, 
Up  in  the  land  where  we'll  hurry  no  more. 

Treasures  that  lie  all  around  us  in  plenty, 

We  never  heed  as  we're  hurrying  on, 
And  when  in  Heaven  our  coffers  are  empty, 

We  shall  first  know  how  they're  lost  and  all  gone. 

Then  we  shall  know  how  our  spirits  have  wasted 

Wealth  of  eternity,  planted  in  time; 
The  soil  for  its  seed  growing  barren  as  ashes, 

While  we  are  hurrying  out  of  its  clime. 

God  works  but  slowly;  but  slowly  my  brothers, 
Not  hurrying  onward,  in  passion  and  strife; 

Works  with  love  only — and  only  for  others — 
Not  for  himself,  in  the  green  fields  of  life. 

Let  us  sit  still  and  be  calm  and  be  thoughtful, 

Lifting  our  hearts  to  eternity's  brink; 
Let  us  cease  living  alone,  for  the  present, 
Let  us  cease  hurrying — what  do  you  think  ? 

— Charleston  Mercury. 
Written  in  New  Orleans,  October  23,  1861. 
Some  sat  still  and  wondered  what  the  end  would  be.     Some 
'darkened  counsel  without  knowledge." 


24  CULLINGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY. 

REBELS. 

Rebels!  'tis  a  holy  name — 
The  name  our  fathers  love, 
When  battling  in  the  cause  of  right 
Against  the  tyrant  and  his  might 
In  the  dark  days  of  yore. 

Rebels!  'tis  our  family  name — 
Our  father,  Washington, 
Was  the  arch-rebel  in  the  fight 
And  gave  the  name  to  us — a  right 
Of  father  unto  son. 

Rebels!  'tis  our  given  name — 
Our  mother,  Liberty, 
Received  the  title  with  her  fame 
In  days  of  grief  and  fear  and  shame, 
When  at  her  breast  were  we. 

Rebels!  'tis  our  sealed  name — 
A  baptism  of  blood; 
The  war,  aye,  and  the  din  of  strife, 
The  fearful  contest,  life  for  life, 
The  mingled  crimson  flood. 

Rebels!  'tis  a  patriot's  name, 

In  struggles  it  was  given, 

We  bore  it  then,  when  tyrants  raved 

And  through  their  curses  t'was  engraved 

On  the  doomsday  book  of  Heaven. 

Rebels!  'tis  our  fighting  name, 
For  peace  rules  o'er  the  land 
Until  they  speak  of  craven  woe; 
Until  our  rights  receive  a  blow 
From  foe  or  brother's  hand. 

Rebels!  'tis  our  dying  name, 

For  although  life  is  dear, 

Yet  freemen  born  and  freemen  bred 

We'd  rather  live  as  freemen  dead 

Than  live  in  slavish  fear. 

Then  call  us  rebels  if  you  will, 

We  glory  in  the  name, 

For  bending  under  unjust  laws 

And  weaving  faith  to  an  unjust  cause 

We  count  a  greater  shame. 

— Atlanta  Confederacy. 


CULLINGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY.          25 

A   POEM    FOR  THE  TIMES. 

John  R.  Thompson. 

Who  talks  of  coercion  ?  who  dares  to  deny 
A  resolute  people  their  right  to  be  free  ? 
Let  him  blot  out  forever  one  star  from  the  sky, 
Or  curb  with  his  fetter  one  wave  of  the  sea. 

Who  prates  of  coercion,  can  love  be  restored 
To  bosoms  where  only  resentment  may  dwell  ? 

Can  peace  upon  earth  be  proclaimed  by  the  sword, 
Or  good-will  among  men  be  established  by  shell  ? 

Shame,  shame  that  the  statesman  and  trickster,  forsooth, 

Should  have  for  a  crisis  no  other  recourse 
Beneath  the  fair  day  spring  of  light  and  of  truth 

Than  the  old  "brutem  fulmen"  of  tyranny — Force. 

From  the  holes  where  fraud,  falsehood  and  hate  slink  away, 
From  the  crypt  in  which  error  lies  buried  in  chains, 

This  foul  apparition  stalks  forth  to  the  day, 
And  would  ravage  the  land,  which  his  presence  profanes. 

Could  you  conquer  us,  men  of  the  North,  could  you  bring 
Desolation  and  death  on  our  homes  as  a  flood, 

Can  you  hope  the  pure  lily,  affection,  will  spring 
From  ashes  all  reeking  and  sodden  with  blood. 

Could  you  brand  us  as  villians  and  serfs,  know  ye  not 
What  fierce  sullen  hatred  lurks  under  the  scar  ? 

How  loyal  to  Hapsburg  is  Venice?  I  wot 
How  dearly  the  Pole  loves  the  Czar? 

But  t'were  well  to  remember  this  land  of  the  sun 

Is  a  nutrix  leonem  and  suckles  a  race 
Strong-armed,  lion-hearted,  and  banded  as  one, 

Who  brook  not  oppression  and  know  not  disgrace. 

And  well  may  the  schemers  in  office  beware, 
The  swift  retribution  that  waits  upon  crime, 

When  the  lion  "  RESISTANCE,"  shall  leap  from  his  lair 
With  a  fury  that  renders  his  vengeance  sublime. 

Once,  men  of  the  North,  we  were  brothers,  and  still, 
Though  brothers  no  more,  we  would  gladly  be  friends; 

Nor  join  in  a  conflict  accurst,  that  must  fill 
With  ruin  the  country  on  which  it  descends. 

But  if  smitten  with  blindness  and  mad  with  the  rage 
The  gods  gave  to  all  they  wished  to  destroy, 

You'd  not  act  a  new  Iliad,  to  darken  the  age 
With  horrors  beyond  what  is  told  as  of  Troy. 

If  deaf  as  the  adder  itself  to  the  cries, 

When  wisdom,  humanity,  justice  implore, 
You  would  have  our  proud  eagle  to  feed  on  the  eyes 

Of  those  who  have  taught  him  so  grandly  to  soar. 


26  CULLINGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY. 

If  there  be  to  your  malice  no  limit  imposed, 

And  you  purpose  hereafter  to  rule  with  the  rod, 

The  men  upon  whom  you  have  already  closed 
Our  goodly  domain  and  the  temples  of  God. 

To  the  breeze  then  your  banner  dishonord  unfold, 
And  at  once  let  the  tocsin  be  sounded  afar, 

We  greet  you  as  greeted  the  Swiss  Charles  the  Bold, 
With  a  farewell  to  peace  and  a  welcome  to  war. 

For  the  courage  that  clings  to  our  soil  ever  bright, 
Shall  catch  inspiration  from  turf  and  from  tide; 

Our  sons  unappalled  shall  go  forth  to  the  fight, 
With  the  smile  of  the  fair  and  the  kiss  of  the  bride. 

And  the  bugle  its  ehoes  shall  send  through  the  past, 
In  the  trenches  of  Yorktown  to  waken  the  slain, 

While  the  sods  of  King's  Mountain  shall  heave  at  the 
And  give  up  its  heroes  to  glory  again. 

— Charleston  Mercury. 


By  L.  M. 

"  If  ever  I  consent  to  be  married, 

And  who  would  refuse  a  good  mate  ? 
The  man  whom  I  give  my  hand  to 

Must  believe  in  the  rights  of  the  State." 

JACKSON. 

(By  Harry  Flash.) 

Not  'midst  the  lightning  of  the  stormy  fight, 

Not  in  the  rush  upon  the  vandal  foe, 
Did  kingly  death,  with  his  resistless  might, 

Lay  the  great  leader  low. 

His  warrior  soul  its  earthly  shackles  broke 
In  the  full  sunshine  of  a  peaceful  town, 

When  all  the  storm  was  hushed  the  trusty  oak 
That  propped  our  cause  went  down. 

Though  his  alone— the  blood  that  flecks  the  ground, 
Recording  all  his  grand  heroic  deeds, 

Freedom  herself  is  writhing  with  the  wound, 
And  all  the  country  bleeds. 

He  entered  not  the  nation's  promised  land, 
At  the  red  belching  oil  the  cannon's  mouth, 

But  broke  the  house  of  bondage  with  his  hands, 
The  Moses  of  the  South. 

O!  gracious  God,  not  gainless  is  the  loss — 

A  glorious  sunbeam  gilds  thy  sternest  frown — 

And  while  his  country  staggers  with  the  cross 
He  rises  with  the  crown. 


CULLINGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY.          27 

FAREWELL   TO   BROTHER   JONATHAN. 

Oh  Jonathan,  Jonathan,  rascal  of  pelf, 
Self-righteous,  self-glorious,  yes,  every  inch  self; 
Your  loyalty  now  is    all  bluster  and  boast, 
You  were  dumb  when  the  foeman  invaded  our  coast. 

In  vain  did  your  country  appeal  to  you  then, 
You  coldly  refused  her  your  money  and  men; 
Your  trade  interrupted,  you  think,  from  her  wars, 
And  preferred  British  gold  to  the  stripes  and  the  stars. 

Then  our  generous  blood  was  as  water  poured  forth, 
And  the  sons  of  the  South  were  the  shields  of  the  North; 
Nor  one  patriot  ardor  one  moment  gave  o'er 
'Till  the  foe  you  had  fed  we  had  driven  from  the  shore. 

Long  years  we  have  suffered  opprobrium  and  wrong, 
But  we  clung  to  your  side  with  affection  so  strong, 

That  at  last  in  mere  wanton,  aggression,  you  broke 
All  the  ties  of  our  hearts  with  one  murderous  stroke. 

We  are  tired  of  the  contest  for  what  is  our  own, 
We're  sick  of  a  strife  that  would  never  be  done; 
Thus  our  love  has  died  out  and  its  altars  are  dark, 
Petometheus,  himself,  could  not  kindle  the  spark. 

Oh,  Jonathan,  Jonathan,  deadly  the  sin 
Of  the  tigerish  thirst  for  the  blood  of  your  kin; 
And  shameful  the  spirit  that  gloats  over  wives, 
And  maidens  despoiled  of  their  honor  and  lives. 

Your  palaces  rise  from  the  fruits  of  our  toil, 
Your  millions  are  fed  from  the  wealth  of  our  soil; 
The  balm  of  our  air  brings  the  health  to  your  cheek, 
And  our  hearts  are  aglow  with  the  welcome  we  speak. 

Oh  brother  beware  how  you  seek  us  again 
Lest  you  brand  on  your  forehead  the  signet  of  Cain ; 
Th,&t  blood  and  that  crime  on  your  conscience  must  sit; 
We  may  fall — we  may  perish — but  never  submit. 

The  pathway  that  leads  to  the  Pharisee's  door 
We  remember,  indeed,  but  we  tread  it  no  more, 
Preferring  to  turn,  with  the  Publican's  faith, 
To  the  path  through  the  valley  and  shadow  of  death. 


COULDN'T  CARRY  AWAY  THE   MILL. 

In  the  Arkansas  campaign  the  general  officer  found  the  en 
tire  grouped  around  a  saw-mill  and  weeping  like  Niobes. 

"  Why,  boys,"  he  asked,  "  what  is  the  matter  ?"  "  Matter 
enough,"  sobbed  one  enterprising  volunteer,  "  thus  far  we 
have  never  left  anything  behind,  but  we  can't  possibly  steal 
this  saw-mill." 


28  CULL  INGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY. 

"FAREWELL,    FOREVER,    THE    STAR-SPANGLED 
BANNER." 

Let  tyrants  and  slaves  submissively  tremble, 

And  bow  down  their  necks  'neath  the  "Juggernaut"  car, 

But  brave  men  will  rise  in  the  strength  of  their  manhood 
And  cry  "Give  me  freedom,  or  else  give  me  war." 

Chorus. 
Farewell,  forever,  the  star-spangled  banner 

No  longer  shall  wave  o'er  the  land  of  the  free — 
In  its  place  we'll  unfurl  to  the  broad  breeze  of  Heaven, 

Thirteen  bright  stars  'round  the  Palmetto  tree. 

We  honor — yes,  honor — bold  South  Carolina, 

Though  small  she  may  be,  she's  as  brave  as  the  best; 

The  flagship  of  States,  she's  out  on  the  ocean, 
To  beat  back  the  waves  of  a  dark  billow's  crest. 
Chorus — Farewell,  etc. 

We   honor — yes,    honor — our    seceding    Sisters, 
Who  launched  this  brave  bark  alone  on  the  sea; 

Though  tempests  may  howl  and  threaten  destruction, 
We'll  hurl  to  the  blast  the  proud  Palmetto  tree. 
Chorus — Farewell,  etc. 

And  when  to  the  contest  the  others  cry  "Rescue" 
Virginia,  undaunted,  will  rush  to  the  fight, 

To  break  down  the  ice-bergs  of  Northern  coercion, 
And  rise  in  her  glory  of  freedom  and  right. 
Chorus — Farewell,  etc. 

When  the  fair  "Fifteen  Sisters,"  a  bright  constellation, 

Shall  dazzlingly  shine  in  a  nation's  pure  skies, 
With  no  hands  to  oppose,  no  foes  to  oppress  them, 
They'll  gleam  there  forever,  a  light  to  all  eyes. 
Chorus — Farewell,  etc. 

By  MRS.  B.  D.  HUNDLEY. 
May  14,  1862. 

The  above  was  sung  in  my  first  entertainment;    benefit  of 
Ragland  Guards,  A.  D.  3862, 


HE   WON   THE   BOOTS. 

While  Longstreet's  corps  was  passing  through  Columbia,  a 
soldier  stepped  into  a  store  and  called  for  a  pair  of  boots.  A 
pair  was  handed  out  and  the  price  demanded.  "  Sixty  dol 
lars,"  said  the  merchant.  "  Mighty  high,"  said  the  soldier. 
"  Tell  me  of  anything  that  is  not  high,"  responded  the  mer 
chant,  "  and  I  will  make  you  a  present  of  the  boots."  "  Sol 
dier's  wages,  sir,"  promptly  replied  the  soldier. 

"  Take  the  boots,"  said  the  merchant,  and  the  soldier 
marched  off  with  them,  leaving  the  merchant  quite  convinced 
that  "the  boot  was  on  the  right  foot." 

A.  D.   1864. 


CULLINGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY.  29 


FAREWELL    TO    YANKEE    DOODLE. 

Yankee  Doodle,  fare  you  well, 
Rice  and  cotton  flout  you, 

Once  they  liked  you  very  well, 
But  now  they'll  do  without  you. 

Yankee  Doodle  used  to  treat 
Old  Pompey  as  a  neighbor, 

He  didn't  grab  his  bread  and  meat, 
Nor  cavil  at  his  labor. 

But  Doodle  now  has  got  so  keen 
For  every  dirty  shilling; 

Propose  a  job,  however  mean, 
And  Yankee  Doodle's  willing. 

Doodle,  too,  has  had  the  luck 

To  get  a  new  religion; 
A  kind  of  holy  zeal  to  pluck 

At  verybody's  pigeon. 

Doodle's  morbid  conscience  strains 

With  Puritanic  vigor, 
To  loose  the  only  friendly  chains 

That  ever  bound  a  nigger. 

Yet  Doodle  knows  as  well  as  I, 

That  when  he's  come  and  freed  'em, 

He'd  see  a  million  niggers  die 
Befor  he'd  help  to  feed  'em. 

Yankee  Doodle  sent  us  down 

A  gallant  missionary, 
His  name  was  Captain  Johnny  Brown, 

The  "  Priest  of  Harper's  Ferry." 

With  pikes  he  tried  to  magnify 
The  Gospel  creed  of  Beecher, 

But  Old  Virginia  lifted  high 
This  military  preacher. 

Yet,  glory  to  his  name  is  sung, 
As  if  with  sin  untainted, 

The  bloody  wretch  by  justice  hung, 
By  bigotry  is  sainted. 

Yankee  Doodle,  now  good  bye, 
We  spurn  a  thing  so  rotten, 

Proud  Independence  is  the  cry 
Of  Sugar,  Rice  and  Cotton. 

Atlanta,  Ga.,  February  1,  1861. 


30  CULL  INGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY. 

THE   SOUTH'S   APPEAL    TO    WASHINGTON. 

Say,  would'st  thou  tamely  stand? 
Say,    would'st    thou    see 
Thine  own  fair  Daughters  of  the  South, 
Battling  alone  for  what  thou  hast 
Taught  them  first  to  love, 
Alone  to  struggle  for  the  boon 
Thou  hast  taught  us  first  to  prize — 
Freedom  from  tyranny? 

Say,  proud  patriot,  would'st  thou 

Have  us  bend  our  necks, 

And  tamely  wear  the  galling  yoke 

By  fierce  fanatics  forged? 

Would'st  thou   see  us — 

Children  of  the  brave  old  sires, 

Who   knew  no   fear 

When  all  they  held  most  dear 

Lay  at  the  mercy  of  a  tyrants  nod, 

Yield  to  Oppression's  bloody  wrongs? 

If  need  be  we'll   stand  alone, 

Stemming  the  tide  of  deep  Oppression's  wrongs, 

Had  thousands  hemmed  brave  Henry  'round 

His  cry  would  still  have  rung  as  fearlessly — 

"Our  Rights!"  If  that  be  treason,  let  it  be, 

"Our  Rights!"  as  Henry  said,  so  now  say  we; 

Rights  of  the  South,  we  will  be  free 

From  broken  faith,  from  compromises  free, 

If  that  be  treason,  rank  rebellion, 

Let  it  be! 

One  loud,  echoing  voice  is  heard, 

One  feeling  deep  each  breast  hath  stirred, 

As  from  their  quiet  homes  they  go, 

Our  sons  to  battle  with  the  foe. 

That  echoing  voice  so  loud  and  deep, 

That  feeling  which  can  never  sleep, 

Is  love,  love  of  liberty. 

"Father  of  our  Country!" 

"Freedom"  is  now  thy  children's  cry. 

Freemen    we'll    live! 

Yes,    freemen    die! 

Washington,  we  learned  that  cry  from  thee, 

"If  it  be  treason,"  rank  rebellion — 

Let   it  be! 

"Our  Rights!"  the  South  must — 

Shall  be  free. 

If  it  be  treason,  let  it  be! 

ANONYMOUS. 

N.    B. — The   above   was   recited   by   Miss   Annie   Gammell, 
of  Hampton,  A.  D.  1862. 


CULLINGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY.  31 

CALL  ALL  !   CALL  ALL  ! 

(By  Georgia.) 

Whoop  !  the  Doodles  have  broke  loose, 
Running  round  like  the  very  deuce, 
Vermin  of  Egypt — a  hungry  pack — 
After  'em  boys  and  drive  'em  back. 

Bulldog,  terrier,  cur  and  fice, 
Back  to  the  beggarly  land  of  ice, 
Worry  'em,  bite  'em,  scratch  and  tear 
Everybody  and  everywhere. 

Old  Kentucky  is  caved  from  under; 
Tennessee  is  split  asunder; 
Alabama  awaits  attack, 
And  Georgia  bristles  up  her  back. 

Old  John  Brown  is  dead  and  gone, 
Still  his  soul  is  marching  on, 
Lantern  jaws  and  legs,  my  boys, 
Long  as  apes  from  Illinois. 

Want  a  weapon  ?  Gather  a  brick, 
Club  or  cudgel,  stone  or  stick, 
Anything  with  a  blade  or  butt, 
Anything  that  can  cleave  or  cut. 

Anything  heavy,  or  hard  or  keen, 
Any  sort  of  slaying  machine; 
Anything,  with  a  willing  mind, 
And  the  steady  arm  of  a  man  behind. 

Want  a  weapon  ?  Why  capture  one  ! 
Every  Doodle  has  got  a  gun — 
Belt  and  bayonet,  bright  and  new, 
Kill  a  Doodle  and  capture  two. 

Shoulder  to  shoulder,  son  and  sire, 
All  !  call  all  !  to  the  feast  of  fire, 
Mother  and  maiden;  child  and  slave, 
A  common  weal  or  a  common  grave. 

— Rockingham,  Va.,  Register. 

It  will  be  noticed  that  these  verses  are  taken  from  the  press 
of  the  day.  Some  show  an  impetuousness  belonging  to  the 
section.  Some  take  things  in  humorous  vein.  We  find  as  we 
go  along  that  they  run  from  "grave  to  gay,"  from  "reverend  to 
severe." 


32  CULLINGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY. 


LINES  TO  THE  SOUTHERN    BANNER. 

Dear  flag  that  woos  the  morning  air; 
That  floats  upon  the  midnight  breeze, 
Victorious  on  the  battle  field; 
Victorious  on  the  seas; 
We  bless  thee,  as  we  see  thee  gleam 
In  glory  o'er  each  Southern  plain. 

Dark  was  the  hour  when  first  thy  folds 

Were  given  to  the  wind, 

And  sable  clouds  from  Northern  skies 

Did  fiercely  o'er  thee  bend; 

But  still  thy  stars  with  luster  shone 

Despite  the  North  cloud's  lowering  gloom. 

At  Sumter  soon  in  glory  thou 

Did'st  o'er  thy  haughty  rival  ride, 

There  shame  did'st  stamp  on  vandal  brow; 

There  first  did'st  blast  the  vandal  pride, 

And  gave  the  vandal  horde  to  know 

At  least  thou  met  a  worthy  foe. 

Then  thou  did'st  kiss  Virginia's  sky, 
Did'st  gild  Manassas  with  thy  beams, 
And  force  the  dastard  foe  to  fly — 
Back  from  our  sunny  plains, 
Unable  to  endure  thy  light, 
Or  to  resist  the  Southern's  might. 

Nor  is  it  on  the  land  alone 
That  thou  dost  emblem  victory; 
But  where  the  eternal  billows  roam 
Thou  hast  looked  down  with  eagle-eye 
On  contests  where  the  Northern  foe 
Before  the  Southern's  arm  bent  low. 

Full  brightly  gleam  thy  noble  bars; 

Thy  stars  in  radiant  circle  shine, 

Emblem  of  the  eternity 

Of  our  young  Southern  clime; 

The  last  Atlantis,  poets  sung, 

Which  has  among  the  nations  sprung. 

Loved  flag,  may'st  thou  forever  float, 
Above  the  fairest  of  earth's  realms, 
And  may'st  thou  neighboring  nations  take 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  thy  wings; 
May  Mexico  and  the  Indian  Isles 
Soon  bask  beneath  thy  loving  smiles. 

For  e'er  untarnished  be  thy  folds, 

For  e'er  increasing  be  thy  stars, 

And  in  the  realms  thou  floatest  o'er 

Be  naught  of  strife,  be  naught  that  mars, 

And  may'st  thou  be  the  last  to  shine 

When  Heaven  proclaims  the  end  of  time. 


CULLINGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY.          33 


THE  BONNIE  BLUE  FLAG. 

We  are  a  band  of  brothers,  and  native  to  the  soil, 

Fighting  for  the  property  we  gained  by  honest  toil; 

And  when  our  rights  were  thereatened,  the  cry  rose  near  and 

far: 
Hurrah  for  the  Bonnie  Blue  Flag  that  bears  a  single  star. 

Chorus  : 

Hurrah  !  Hurrah  !  for  Southern  rights,  hurrah  ! 

Hurrah  for  the  Bonnie  Blue  Flag  that  bears  a  single  star. 

As  long  as  the  Union  was  faithful  to  her  trust, 
Like  friends  and  brethren  kind  were  we,  and  just; 
But  now,when  Northern  treachery  attempts  our  rights  to  mar, 
We  hoist  on  high  the  Bonnie  Blue  Flag  that  bears  a  single 
star. 

Chorus  : 

First  gallant  South  Carolina  nobly  made  the  stand, 
Then  came  Alabama  and  took  her  by  the  hand; 
Next,  quickly,  Mississippi,  Georgia  and  Florida, 
All  raised  on  high  the  Bonnie  Blue  Flag  that  bears  a  single 
star. 

Chorus  : 

Ye  men  of  valor  gather  round  the  banner  of  the  right, 
Texas  and  fair  Louisiana  join  us  in  the  fight; 
With  Davis,our  loved  President,  and  Stephens,  statesmen  rare, 
We'll  rally  round  the  Bonnie  Blue  Flag  that  bears  a  single 
star. 

Chorus  : 

And  here's  to  brave  Virginia,  the  Old  Dominion  State, 
With  the  young  Confederacy  at  lengh  has  linked  her  fate, 
Impelled  by  her  example,  now  other  States  prepare 
To  hoist  on  high  the  Bonnie  Blue  Flag  that  bears  a  single  star. 

Chorus  : 

Then  here's  to  our  Confederacy,  strong  we  are  and  brave, 
Like  patriots  of  old  we'll  fight,  our  heritage  to  save, 
And  rather  than  submit  to  shame,  to  die  we  would  prefer, 
So  cheer  for  the  Bonnie  Blue  Flag  that  bears  a  single  star. 

Chorus  : 

Then  cheer,  boys,  cheer,  raise  a  joyous  shout, 
For  Arkansas  and  North  Carolina,  now  have  both  gone  out, 
And  let  another  rousing  cheer  for  Tennessee  be  given, 
The  single  star  of  the  Bonnie  Blue  Flag  has  grown  to  be 
eleven. 

Chorus  : 
A.  D.,  1862. 


34  CULLINGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY. 


OUR  FLAG— THE  STARS  AND  BARS. 

No  more  seen  through  the  rifts  of  the  battle  smoke,  the  long 
grey  line  presses  to  the  height  in  the  charge,  through  the 
descending  avalanche  of  lead  and  iron.  No  more  fluttering  in 
the  van  of  the  fiendish  storm  flies  that  flag — now  lifted,  now 
lowered,  now  seen,  now  lost,  now  struggling  to  the  apex, 
almost  crowned.  They  have  gone  down  together — that  long 
grey  line — that  flag. 

Would  it  not  be  a  shame  to  us 

If  their  memory  part  from  our  land  and  heart, 
And  a  wrong  to  them  and  a  blame  to  us  ? 

As  the  sea  echoes  in  the  shell  we  may  still  hear  the  far-off 
din  of  battle  receding  down  the  years.  As  pass  the  clouds, 
as  dies  the  storm,  the  wheels  of  the  thunder  chariot  echoing 
fainter  and  fainter,  rolling  upon  the  horizon's  verge  and  pass 
ing  out  of  sound  to  be  "  enshrined  in  a  nation's  heart."  Chil 
dren  of  the  honored  South  love  that  flag  ! 

Love  it!  it  is  gory, 

And  'tis  wreathed  around  with  glory, 
And  'twill  live  in  song  and  story, 
For  its  fame  on  brightest  pages — 
Sung  by  poets,  penned  by  sages, 
Shall  go  thundering  down  the  ages. 

Again,  never  forget  this  fact  that  : 

"  It  is  but  right,"  said  one  of  our  bravest  Southern  soldiers, 
"  that  the  flag  they  fought  for  should  be  laid  upon  their  tomb." 

For  in  life  they  hailed  it  gladly, 
And  by  thousands,  wildly,  madly, 
Swore  it  should  forever  wave. 


A  YANKEE   SHIBBOLETH. 

When  Colonel  Bates'  Tennessee  Legion  was  stationed  on 
the  Potomac,  a  man,  claiming  to  be  a  citizen  of  that  neighbor 
hood,  came  and  desired  to  get  within  our  lines  to  hunt  his 
"  keows."  The  Colonel,  not  liking  his  nasal  twang,  replied : 
"I  can't  permit  you  to  pass  in;  if  any  person  wishes  to  come 
in  to  hunt  cows  he  can  do  so,  but  we  cannot  let  anyone  pass 
who  wishes  to  hunt  "  keows."  Good  for  you,  Colonel  Bates, 
let  the  Shibboleth  be  "  cows,"  and  a  blue-coated  Yankee  will 
mispronounce  it  every  pop. 


CULLINGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY.          35 


OUR   CAUSE. 

Oh,  story  long  and  sad  to  tell, 

Of  how  we  fought,  and  how  we  fell, 

Oppressed  in  peace,  to  arms  we  fled, 

And  sought  the  battlefield. 
And  now  we  mourn  unnumbered  dead, 
Whose  blood  in  Freedom's  cause  was  shed, 

And  shed  without  a  yield. 

The  farmer  left  his  growng  crop, 

The  husband  proud,  his  wife, 
The  mother's  pride,  her  only  prop, 

The  pleasure  of  her  life. 
To  arms  they  fled,  their  country  cried, 
They  heard  the  call  and  gladly  died. 

We  asked  not  lands — we  had  the  best; 
We  asked  not  wealth — the  Northern  test; 
We  asked  not  trains — we  had  our  men; 
We  asked  not  pomp — what  then,  what  then  ? 
We  asked  our  rights,  and  asking,  swore 
We'd  have  our  rights  or  nothing  more. 

A  thousand  voices  caught  the  cry, 

It  echoed  through  the  land; 
O'er  hill  and  dale  the  watchwords  fly, 

Your  rights,  your  arms  demand. 
A  meagre  band  of  souls  we  stood, 
To  stem  the  proud  oppressing  flood — 
An  isolated  band 
Without  a  helping  hand, 
We  vainly  fought,  but  proudly  fell, 
Whilst  wondering  tongues  our  actions  tell. 

We  fought  while  fortune  faltered, 

We  fought  'till  Hope  had  fled, 
And  then  with  armies  shattered, 
And  banners  torn  and  tattered, 
And  friends,  the  fondest,  scattered 

We  knew  not  where,  but  dead! 

We  grounded  arms  'mid  weeping, 

Our  patriot  band  had  failed; 
Our  hearts  were  faintly  keeping 
Time  to  the  drums-beat  creeping 
Adown  our  line  'twas  sweeping 

Away  our  hopes — hearts  quailed. 

We  failed,  our  flag  forever, 

In  tears  we  took  it  down; 
Our  loved  flag  that  never 
Had  yet  been  seen  to  waver, 
It  floated  proudly  ever, 

Fit  emblem  of  renown. 

ANON. 


36  CULLING 'S  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY. 

THE  BATTLE  CALL. 

Rise,  Southmen  !  the  day  of  your  glory, 

The  hour  of  your  destiny's  near — 
The  fame  of  your  chivalrous  story 

All  nations  are  eager  to  hear. 
A  luminous  halo  is  shining 

Around  the  old  PALMETTO  STATE, 
The  bones  of  our  PROPHET  enshrining  — 

Her  brave  ones  are  never  too  late. 
There  FIRST  from  the  bonds  of  oppression 

The  Southman  unloosed  the  stronghold  ; 
There  FIRST  heard  a  nation's  confession 

In  Sumter's  loud  thunderings  told. 

FLORIDA  !  thou  region  of  flowers  ; 

Rich  land  of  the  laurel  and  bay, 
Though  cradled  in  warm,  sunny  bowers, 

Now  hurry  thy  brave  ones  away. 
Go,  twine  for  thy  struggling  nation 

A  garland  to  wreath  its  scarred  brow  ; 
The  south  wind — a  sweet  inspiration, 

To  cheer  thy  young  soldiers  on  now. 

And  foremost  THY  banners  are  streaming  ; — 

And  FIRST,  on  Manassas'  red  plain, 
The  sword  of  old  GEORGIA  there  gleaming, 

Hath  cleft  the  invader  in  twain. 
My  country  !  I  may  not  implore  thee  ! 

The  brave  have  not  fallen  in  vain  ; 
Thy  sons  heard  the  warning  before  me, 

And  hasten  to  glory  again. 

Rise  up  in  thy  strength,  ALABAMA  ! 

An  argosy  sweeps  o'er  the  sea  ; 
Rush  on  to  the  battle's  loud  clamor, 

Thy  children  were  born  to  be  free  ! 
The  fleet  of  the  tyrant  is  mooring 

Along  on  thy  white,  sandy  shore  ; 
No  longer  their  insults  enduring, 

Go  forth  to  the  conflict  once  more. 

Come,  brave  MISSISSIPPI,  to  battle  ! 

The  point  of  your  steel  has  been  tried, 
The  sound  of  your  musketry's  rattle 

Is  heard  by  the  Southman  with  pride — 
It  rose  in  the  morn  of  your  glory, 

And  down  on  the  ages  shall  set ; 
The  fame  of  your  chivalrous  story, 

The  SOUTHMAN  can  never  forget. 

The  SOLDIER  who  led  forth  your  legions, 

And  answered  his  country's  FIRST  call, 
Away  in  those  far  SOUTHERN  regions, 

Now  stands  at  the  head  of  us  all — 
Above,  his  high  valor  outshining, 

The  glory  of  bloody  old  Mars, 
The  praise  of  a  nation  is  twining 

Our  flag  with  its  girdles  and  stars. 


CULLING S  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY.  37 

Come,  sons  of  the  fair  LOUISIANA  ! 

Forsake  the  warm  glow  of  your  sky — 
Unfurl  to  the  free  wind  your  banner, 

The  day  of  your  destiny's  nigh  ; 
The  breath  of  the  South  wind  is  laden 

With  perfume  of  tropical  flowers  ; 
Come  forth  !  for  that  beautiful  Eden, 

And  shield  from  the  spoiler  your  bowers. 

Come,  TEXAS  !  send  forth  your  bold  Rangers, 

The  heroes  of  battles  untold — 
Accustomed  to  trials  and  dangers, 

Come  !  stand  by  your  rights  as  of  old  ; 
The  deeds  of  your  chivalrous  daring 

Are  writ  on  the  Alamo's  wall, 
A  record  which  ruin  is  sparing — 

Come  forth  !  to  your  country's  loud  call. 

Thou  rigid  old  nurse  of  the  nation, 

VIRGINIA  !  great  mother  of  States, 
Thy  name  yields  a  high  inspiration ! 

To  that  which  the  fearless  creates. 
'Twas  here  in  the  grand  "  OLD  DOMINION," 

That  Liberty  fledged  its  young  plume, 
And  waving  aloft  on  its  pinion 

The  death-seal  of  tyranny's  doom. 

Old  home  of  the  heroes  !  whose  ashes 

Repose  in  thy  sanctified  dust, 
Above  them  the  infidel  dashes 

r    Invading  thine  own  hallowed  trust. 
0,  spirits  of  heroes  immortal ! — 
Look  down  on  the  whole  Southern  host, 
And  see  from  the  heaven — high  portal 
That  SOUTHMEN  stand  true  to  their  post. 

And  THOU,  top,  "OLD  NORTH  STATE,"  art  ready! 

And  watching  with  sentinel  eye  ; 
The  range  of  thy  rifles  is  steady, 

At  sight  of  the  foe  to  let  fly. 
Now  come,  with  the  courage  of  olden! 

And  firm  by  thy  principles  stand  ; 
The  cause  shall  thy  spirit  embolden, 

Though  sons  of  a  valiant  old  land! 

Hurrah!  for  the  spirit  of  glory, 

The  sons  of  the  "VOLUNTEER  STATE;" 
There  is  many  a  battle-field  gory, 

That  tells  of  their  chivalrous  fate. 
Like  spray  on  the  tempest-stirred  ocean, 

They  scattered  the  foe  in  his  might  ; 
Old  TENNESSEE'S  soul  is  in  motion, 

Her  banners  are  FIRST  in  the  fight. 


38  CULLINGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY. 

ARKANSAS!  send  forth  your  true  rifles, 

Your  sons  all  the  bravest  and  best ; 
The  time  has  now  past  for  the  trifles 

Of  hunting  and  game  in  the  West — 
'Tis  the  voice  of  your  country  that  calls  you 

Away  from  your  wild  forest  home ; 
And  now  whatsoever  befalls  you, 

Sharp-shooters  of  ARKANSAS,  come! 

MISSOURI  lies  fettered  and  groaning, 

And  crushed  by  oppression  and  wrath  ; 
Oh!  rise!  from  your  desolate  mourning, 

And  follow  the  foe  in  his  path — 
Nor  mountains,  nor  rivers,  impeding, 

Oppression  hath  rolled  its  dark  flood — 
The  cry  of  your  children  unheeding — 

The  PRICE  of  your  freedom  is  BLOOD. 

Oh!  where  are  your  hunters,  KENTUCKY, 

Who've  filled  the  whole  world  with  their  fame? 
The  fates,  in  an  hour  so  unlucky, 

Have  hidden  your  valor  in  shame. 
Now,  by  the  brave  souls  of  your  fathers, 

That  look  from  the  portals  of  Heaven, 
With  blessings  from  lips  of  your  mothers, 

Come  forth  !  and  your  chains  shall  be  riven. 

Send  forth,  ARIZONA,  thy  trappers, 

Though  YOUNGEST  and  WEAKEST  of  all ; 
Thy  yeomen,  thy  miners  and  choppers, 

Must  come  to  the  battle's  loud  call. 
Or,  wherefore  thy  rich  hidden  treasure, 

If  tyrants  must  crush  out  the  ore  ? 
Forego  now  thy  infantile  pleasure, 

And  baptize  thy  birthright  in  gore  ! 

0  MARYLAND  !  deep  we  deplore  thee, 

And  weep  at  thy  prison  and  chains  ; 
But  eye  of  the  brave  watches  o'er  thee, 

While  a  spark  of  thy  freedom  remains. 
Thou  may'st  bend  as  the  storm  rushes  o'er  thee, 

And  rock  with  the  tyrant's  dread  shake  ; 
O  MARYLAND  !  deep  we  deplore  thee  ! 

Oppression  may  BEND,  but  not  BREAK. 

Rise  Southmen  !  the  day  of  your  glory, 

The  hour  of  your  destiny's  near — 
The  fame  of  your  chivalrous  story 

All  nations  are  eager  to  hear. 
Cold,  cold,  though  the  freezing  hail  rattles, 

O'er  corses  enshrouded  in  snow  ; 
Yet  the  God  of  your  fathers'  old  battles 

Now  urges  their  children  to  go. 

Composed  by  MRS.  E.  M.  McCoRD  VERNON. 
Richmond,  February  20,  1862. 

N.  B. — The  above  was  recited  by  Miss  JENNIE  GARRISON,  of 
Petersburg,  Va.,  A.  D.  1862. 


CULLING S  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY.          39 

CREATION  OF  DIXIE. 

Created  by  a  nation's  glee, 
With  jest  and  song  and  revelry, 
We  sang  it  in  our  early  pride 
Throughout  our  Southern  borders  wide, 
While  from  the  thousands'  throats  rang  out 
A  promise  in  one  glorious  shout 
"  To  live  or  die  for  Dixie." 

How  well  that  promise  was  redeemed, 
Is  witnessed  by  each  field  where  gleamed 
Victorious — like  the  crest  of  Mars — 
The  Banner  of  the  Stars  and  Bars  ! 
The  cannons  lay  our  warriors  low — 
We  fill  the  ranks  and  onward  go 
"  To  live  or  die  for  Dixie  !  " 

To  die  for  Dixie  ! — Oh,  how  blessed 
Are  those  who  early  went  to  rest  ; 
Nor  knew  the  future's  awful  store, 
But  deemed  the  cause  they  fought  for  sure 
As  heaven  itself,  and  so  laid  down, 
The  cross  of  earth  for  glory's  crown, 
And  nobly  died  for  Dixie. 

*To  LIVE  for  Dixie — harder  part ! 
To  stay  the  hand — to  still  the  heart — 
To  seal  the  lips — enshroud  the  past — 
To  have  no  future — all  o'ercast — 
But  knit  life's  broken  threads  again, 
And  keep  her  memory  pure  from  stain — 
This  is — to  LIVE  for  Dixie. 

Belove'd  land  !  beloved  song, 
Tour  thrilling  power  shall  last  as  long- 
Enshrined  within  each  Southern  soul — 
As  Time's  eternal  ages  roll ; 
Made  holier  by  the  test  of  years — 
Baptised  with  our  country's  tears — 
God  and  the  right  for  Dixie  ! 

1861.  (Anonymous.) 

*"Dixon"  says — Peace  was  declared,  but  a  war  far  worse  was 
left  on  our  hands.  What  fiercer  struggle  than  that  of  intelligence 
and  virtue  against  ignorance  and  vice.  What  greater  conqueror 
than  he,  who  under  such  conditions,  ruled  his  own  spirit. 

IMPUDENT  YANKEES. 

As  a  fop  was  riding  a  very  fine  horse  in  the  park,  a  young 
and  pretty  lady  was  very  evidently  admiring  the  animal,  when 
he  stopped  and  very  impudently  asked:  "Are  you  admiring 
me,  Miss  ,"  "  No,"  was  the  reply,  "  I  was  admiring  the  horse, 
not  the  donkey." 


40          CULLING S  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY. 


WHERE  IS  THE  REBEL  FATHERLAND  ? 

Where  is  the  Rebel  Fatherland? 
Is  it  Maryland,  dear  Maryland? 
The  land  of  Carroll !  Thomas  !  Kane  ! 
McHenry's  walls  and  dungeon  chains? 

Chorus — Oh,  no!  oh,  no!  oh,  no!  no,  no; 

OUR  Fatherland's  not  bounded  so. 

WHERE  is  the  REBEL  Fatherland? 
Is  it  VIRGINIA'S  dear  "  Motherland?  " 
Where  every  vale's  a  soldier's  grave, 
Who  died  his  native  land  to  save? 

Chorus — Oh,  no!  etc. 

Where  is  the  REBEL  Fatherland? 

Is  it  Carolina?  Georgia's  strand? 

Is  it  Florida,  with  Summer  bloom? 

Or  that  which  holds  brave  Morgan's  tomb? 

Chorus — Oh,  no!  etc. 

Where  is  the  Rebel  Fatherland? 

Is  it  Louisiana's  tropic  land? 

The  land  which  guards  our  Allen's  grave, 

And  Dreux,  who  loved,  but  could  not  save? 

Chorus — Oh,  no!  etc. 

Where  is  the  Rebel  Fatherland? 
Is  it  Mississippi's  glorious  land? 
Or  Alabama's  faithful  breast, 
On  which  her  martyred  dead  do  rest? 

Chorus— Oh,  110!  etc. 

Where  is  the  Rebel  Fatherland? 
Is  it  Arkansas?  or  Missouri  land? 
Lands  still  in  blood  and  tears  baptized? 
Where  every  breeze  bears  groans  and  sighs? 

Chorus — Oh,  no!  etc. 

Where  is  the  Rebel  Fatherland? 
Is  it  Tennessee,  the  oppressed? 
Where  angels  watch  Zollicoffer's  tomb, 
And,  shud'ring,  whisper  Brownlow's  doom? 

Chorus — Oh,  no?  etc. 

Where  is  the  Rebel  Fatherland? 
Is  it  Texas  land— the  Lone  Star  land? 
The  land  of  Wharton,  Johnson,  Hood, 
Goliad,  and  where  the  ALAMO  stood? 

Chorus — Oh,  no!  etc. 


CULL  INGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY.          41 


THIS  is  the  Rebel  Fatherland! 

Oh!  Heavenly  Father,  BLESS  this  land! 

ALL  lands  o'er  which  the  BLUE  CROSS  waved, 

Where  patriots  bold  the  invaders  braved. 

Chorus — THIS  is  OUR  land,  our  FATHERLAND! 
THIS  is  the  "  REBEL"  Fatherland. 

Where  "  Boys  in  GREY  "  fill  martyr  graves, 
From  Chesapeake  to  Tampa's  waves  ; 
From  where  the  hoarse  Atlantic  roars 
To  Rio  Grande' s  quiet  shores, 
This  is  OUR  land,  our  SOUTHERN  land  ; 
THIS,  THIS,  our  OWN  dear  Fatherland. 

By  MRS.  M.  J.  P. 


"WE    COME!    WE    COME!" 

We  come,  we  come,  for  death  or  life, 

For  the  grave  or  victory! 
We  come  to  the  broad  red  sea  of  strife, 

Where  the  black  flag  waveth  free; 
We  come  as  men,  to  do  or  die, 

Nor  feel  that  the  lot  is  hard, 
When  our  Hero  calls — and  our  battle  cry 

Is  "On  to  Beauregard!" 

Up,  craven,  up!  'tis  no  time  for  ease, 

When  the  crimson  war-tide  rolls 
To  our  very  doors — up,  up,  for  these 

Are  times  to  try  men's  souls! 
The  purple  gore  calls  from  the  sod 

Of  our  martyred  brothers'  graves, 
And  prays  for  the  strong  right  hand  of  God 

To  guard  our  avenging  braves. 

And  unto  the  last  bright  drop  that  thrills 

The  depths  of  the  Southern  heart; 
We  must  battle  for  our  sunny  hills 

For  the  freedom  of  our  mart. 
For  all  that  honor  claims,  or  right 

For  country,  love  and  home, 
Shout  to  the  trampling  steeds  of  might, 

Our  cry — we  come,  we  come. 

And  let  our  path  through  their  serried  ranks 

Be  the  fierce  tornado's  track 
That  bursts  from  the  torrid's  fervid  banks 

And   scatters    destruction   black. 
For  the  hot  life  leaping  in  the  veins 

Of  our  young  Confederacy 
Must  break  for  aye  the  galling  chains 

Of  dark-browed  treachery. 


42          CULLINGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY. 

On,  on,  'tis  our  gallant  chieftian  calls 

Our  hero  of  the  plain, 
For  aid  to  guard  the  homestead  walls, 

He  must  not  call  in  vain. 
We  come,  we  come,  to  do  or  die, 

Nor  feel  that  the  lot  is  hard, 
God  and  our  rights  be  the  battle  cry, 

And  on  to  Beauregard. 

By  MILLIE  MAYPIELD. 

Dedicated  to  the  Crescent  Regiment  of  New  Orleans,  Col. 
M.  I.  Smith. 


SECESSION,  OR   UNCLE  SAM'S  TROUBLESOME 
DAUGHTERS. 

Waking  up  one  lovely  morning 

In  the  Autumn's  rarest  prime, 
Gathered  in  the  richest  harvest 

That  the  world  has  reaped  in  time — 
Golden  sheaves  of  peace  and  plenty, 

Graced  our  hills  on  every  hand, 
While  the  waves  of  richest  commerce 

Kissed  the  shores  of  every  land. 

Uncle  Sam,  among  the  nations, 

Proudly  stood  that  glorious  morn, 
Eying  crowns  and  tyranny 

With  a  great  contempt  and  scorn. 
Poor  old  man  was  in  his  dotage, 

With  his  eyes  so  blear  and  old; 
He  could'nt  see  his  favorite  children 

Growing  insolent  and  bold. 

He  could  not  see  the  covert  sneer 

Lurking  in  their  Judas'  smile, 
Nor  hear  the  cry  of  the  oppressed 

As  they  were  trod  upon  the  while; 
For  when  they  cry  "Long  live  the  Union 

Of  the  glorious  Thirty-three," 
"All's  right,"  he  mutters,  nestling  closer 

In  his  chair  of  luxury. 

Long  the  "Thirteen  Sisters"  bore  it, 

Seeking  vainly  for  redress, 
While  the  others  rendered  to  them 

Only  scorn  and  bitterness. 

South  Carolina,  nobly    daring, 

Smarting  to  the  very  core, 
With  flashing  eye  and  haughty  bearing, 

Stepped  at  once  outside  the  door. 

Oh!  how  they  laughed  with  jeer  and  taunt, 

Gathered  then  in  Washington: 
"Let  her  go,  she'll  soon  repent 

Of  her  folly — simple  one!" 


CULLINGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY.         43 

"Let  her  go!"  she'll  soon  long 

For  old  home-endearing  charms, 
Let  her  go  and  she'll  soon  find 

She  can't  live  without  our  shelt'ring  arms. 

Toying  with  the  new-born  flowers, 

Listening  to  the  maddening  shout, 
Florida  gathered  her  apron  up 

And  followed  her  sister  out. 

Then  came  Georgia — dearest  Georgia! 

With  a  calm,  decided  air — 
Looked  with  stern  and  earnest  gaze 

Upon  the  falsehoods  glitt'ring  there. 

And  with  firm,  unfaltering  step, 

Turned  toward  the  opening  door — 
Crossed  the  threshold  of  the  White  House 

To  re-enter — nevermore. 

Alabama,  Mississippi — 

With  your  soft  and  gentle  smile — 
Can  you  linger  where  dew-eyed  Pity 

Never  human  woes  beguile? 

Nay,  my  Sisters,  we  are  coming — 

Coming  quickly  after  you, 
Hand  in  hand  in  all  the  future 

You  will  ever  find  us  true. 

Louisiana,  dainty  belle, 

Of  them  all  the  household  pet, 
Waved  her  flourishing  farewell, 

And  left  her  home  without  regret. 

Then  came  Texas— rosy  Texas— 

With  a  bounding  step  and  free, 
Youngest  of  the  fairy  train, 

Seeking  truth  and  liberty. 

Here  the  old  man  from  his  stupor, 

Starting,  rubbed  his  swimming  eyes, 
And  that  which  once  awakened  laughter 

Now  breeds  anger  and  surprise. 

What!  seven  daughters  left  my  home! 

Surely  they  are  off  the  track, 
Come,  my  loyal  children!  come! 

We  must  force  those  truants  back. 

Force  us  back,  sir!  did  you  say? 

Why  that  remains  but  to  be  seen; 
For  if  you  do,  you'll  whip  Virginia — 

Fairest  of  the  fair  Thirteen. 


44  CULLINGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY. 

North  Carolina  felt  a  chillness 

Creeping  o'er  her  as  she  rose, 
And  gathering  her  mantle  round  her, 

Turned  her  back  upon  her  foes. 

Then  we  said  "will  she,  too,  come — 

Gentle,  meek-eyed  Tennessee?" 
List!  the  answer  that  returns — 

"Give  me  Death  or  Liberty!" 

Alas!   Missouri,  poor  Missouri! 

Why  did  you  linger  in  that  hour; 
'Till  their  haughty  spell  had  bound  you; 

'Till  they  had  you  in  their  power? 
But  behold  a  giant  struggle 

Breaks  the  bands — her  freedom's  won, 
Listen!  ye  brave  souls  of  Belmont; 

Bloody  fields  of  Lexington. 

Then  Kentucky,  wild  Kentucky, 

Ran  and  jumped  upon  the  fence, 
Where  she  might,  all  unmolested, 

Watch  the  progress  of  events. 
Foolish  child,  rouse,  rouse  to  action! 

Know  you  not  what  woes  betide? 
Then  Kentucky,  struggling,  bleeding, 

Tumbled  over  on  our  side. 

Three  cheers  then  for  the  mystic  number! 

Sound  it  well  o'er  land  and  sea; 
Let  the  nations  all  regard  us, 

For  we  must  and  will  be  free. 

Note. — Sent  to  the  compiler  to  dramatize  in  the  year  1862, 
by  unknown  author.  Will  be  glad  to  know  the  originator,  as 
original  copy  is  preserved. 

Recited  by  Miss  Drummond,  of  Norfolk,  Va. 


FEMALE    HEROISM. 

Two  of  the  late  Judge  Clopton's  daughters  had  a  servant 
hired  at  Fortress  Monroe,  and  could  not  get  her  by  sending. 
They  made  one  of  their  servants  row  them  to  the  fort  in  a 
boat.  They  were  armed  with  revolvers  and  demanded  admit 
tance.  The  sentinel  refused.  They  insisted  and  were  told 
that  they  would  be  fired  upon.  They  said: "Fire,  then,"  and 
drew  their  revolvers  and  entered  the  fort.  They  told  the  offi 
cers  that  they  had  heard  that  the  Hampton  people  should  not 
throw  up  sand  banks,  but  that  it  should  be  done  if  the  ladies 
had  to  do  it;  that  they  would  head  a  company  of  ladies  to  do 
it.  The  officers  said  if  they  were  specimens  of  the  ladies, 
they  did  not  know  what  the  men  of  Hampton  would  do. 


CULLING  S  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY.          45 

O  !   I'M  A  GOOD  OLD  REBEL. 

0  !I'm  a  good  old  rebel, 
Now  that's  just  what  I  am; 

For  this  "  Fair  Land  of  Freedom  " 

I  do  not  care — at  all. 
I'm  glad  I  fit  against  it, 

I  only  wish  we'd  won, 
And  I  don't  want  no  pardon 

For  anything  I've  done. 

1  hate  the  Constitution, 
This  great  Republic,  too, 

I  hate  the  Freedman's  Bureau, 

In  uniforms  of  blue; 
I  hate  the  nasty  eagle, 

With  all  his  brag  and  fuss, 
The  lying,  thieving  Yankees, 

I  hate  them  wuss  and  wuss. 

I  hate  the  Yankee  Nation, 

And  everything  they  do; 
I  hate  the  Declaration 

Of  Independence,  too; 
I  hate  the  glorious  Union, 

'Tis  dripping  with  our  blood; 
I  hate  the  striped  banner, 

I  fit  it  all  I  could. 

I  followed  old  Mar's  Robert 

For  four  years,  near  about, 
Got  wounded  in  three  places, 

And  starved  at  Pint  Lookout; 
I  cotched  the  roomatism 

A  camping  in  the  snow; 
But  I  killed  a  chance  of  Yankees — 

I'd  like  to  kill  some  mo. 

Three  hundred  thousand  Yankees 

Lie  stiff  in  Southern  dust; 
We  got  three  hundred  thousand 

Before  they  conquered  us; 
They  died  of  Southern  fever 

And  Southern  steel  and  shot; 
I  wish  it  was  three  millions, 

Instead  of  what  we  got. 

I  can't  take  up  my  musket 

And  fight  'em  now  no  more; 
But  I  ain't  a  going  to  love  'em, 

Now  that  is  sartain  sure; 
And  I  don't  want  no  pardon, 

For  what  I  was  and  am; 
I  won't  be  reconstructed, 

And  I  don't  care  a — cent. 

Respectfully  dedicated  to  Thad.  Stevens,  1862. 
Sung  by  Harry  Allen,  Washington  Artillery,  New  Orleans, 
La. 


46          CULLING S  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY. 

A  SOUTHERN   BATTLE  HYMN. 

God  of  our  fathers  !  King  of  Kings  ! 

Lord  of  the  earth  and  sea  ! 
With  hearts  repentant  and  sincere 

We  turn,  in  need,  to  Thee; 
Thou,  Lord,  did'st  aid  our  fathers  bold, 

They  owned  Thy  power  and  might, 
We  humbly  pray  Thee  help  us  now, 


Be  with  us  in  the  fight. 

We  kneel  with  simple,  trusting  hearts, 

Lord,  we  implore  Thy  aid, 
Grant  us  the  power  to  triumph  now, 

Or  to  die  undismayed. 
We  strive  not,  Lord,  for  lust  or  gold, 

Nor  for  blind  bigotry; 
We  fight  for  home  and  country,  dear, 

And  Thy  gift,  liberty. 

We  have  no  power  without  Thy  aid, 

We  rest  alone  on  Thee; 
Be  with  us  in  our  trial  stern, 

And  grant  us  victory. 
Give  us  the  hearts  that  Thou  did'st  plant 

Within  our  fathers  brave, 
Lord  nerve  each  heart  to  welcome  death, 

Rather  than  live  a  slave. 

God  of  our  fathers  !  King  of  Kings  ! 

We  hnmbly  bow  to  Thee; 
Defend  and  save  us  with  Thy  might, 

Out-terly  liberty. 
So  shall  each  proud  and  martial  heart, 

Thy  mighty  name  adore, 
And  own  and  worship  Thee,  the  Lord, 

Both  now  and  evermore. 

ANONYMOUS. 
May  25,  1861. 


INCIDENT    IN    GENERAL    LEE'S    LIFE. 

At  a  meeting  held  in  one  of  our  Southern  cities  to  do  honor 
to  the  memory  of  General  Lee,  it  was  said  an  offer,  originating 
in  Georgia,  I  believe,  was  made  to  him  to  place  an  immense 
sum  of  money  at  his  disposal  if  he  would  consent  to  reside  in 
the  city  of  New  York  and  represent  Southern  commerce.  Mil 
lions  would  have  flowed  to  him,  but  he  declined.  He  said: 
"  No,  I  am  grateful,  but  I  have  a  self-imposed  task,  which  I 
must  accomplish.  I  have  led  the  young  men  of  the  South  in 
battle;  I  have  seen  many  of  them  fall  under  my  standard;  I 
shall  devote  my  life  now  to  training  young  men  to  do  their 
duty  in  life." 

HON.  H.  W.  HILLIARD. 


CULLINGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY.          47 

ORDERED  AWAY. 

Dedicated  to  the  Oglethorpe  and  Walker  Light  Infantries. 
By  MRS.  J.  J.  JACOBUS. 

At  the  end  of  each  street  a  banner  we  meet, 

The  people  all  march  in  a  mass, 
But  quickly  aside,  they  step  back  with  pride, 

To  let  the  brave  companies  pass. 
The  streets  are  dense  filled,  but  the  laughter  is  stilled — 

The  crowd  is  all  going  one  way; 

Their  cheeks  are  blanched  white,  but  they  smile  as  they 
light 

Lift  their  hats  to  the — ordered  away. 

They  smile  while  the  dart  pierces  deeply  their  heart, 

But  each  eye  flashes  back  the  war  glance, 
And  they  watch  the  brave  file  march  up  with  a  smile, 

'Neath  their  flag — with  their  muskets  and  lance; 
The  cannon's  loud  roar  vibrates  on  the  shore, 

But  the  people  are  quiet  to-day, 
As,  startled,  they  see  how  fearless  and  free 

March  the  companies — ordered  away. 

Not  a  quiver  or  gleam  of  fear  can  be  seen, 

Though  they  go  to  meet  death  in  disguise, 
For  the  hot  air  is  filled  with  poison  distilled, 

'Neath  the  rays  of  fair  Florida's  skies. 
Hark,  the  drum  and  fife  awake  to  new  life 

The  soldiers  who — "Can't  get  away," 
Who  wish  as  they  wave  their  hats  to  the  brave, 

That  they  were  the — ordered  away. 

As  our  parting  grows  near,  let  us  quell  back  the  tear, 

Let  our  smiles  shine  as  bright  as  of  yore; 
Let  us  stand  with  the  mass,  salute  as  they  pass, 

And  weep  when  we  see  them  no  more. 
Let  no  tear-drop  or  sigh  dim  the  light  of  our  eye, 

Or  move  from  our  lips — as  they  say — 
While  waving  our  hand  to  a  brave  little  band, 

Good  bye  to  the — ordered  away. 

Let  them  go  in  God's  name,  in  defense  of  their  fame, 

Brave  death  at  the  cannon's  wide  mouth; 
Let  them  honor  and  save  the  land  of  the  brave, 

Plant  Freedom's  bright  flag  in  the  South. 
Let  them  go  while  we  weep,  and  lone  vigils  keep, 

We  will  bless  them  and  fervently  pray, 
To  the  God  whom  we  trust,  for  our  cause  firm  but  just 

And  our  loved  ones — the  ordered  away. 

When  fierce  battles  storm,  we  will  rise  up  each  morn, 

Teach  our  young  sons  the  sabre  to  wield; 
Should  their  brave  father's  die,  we  will  arm  them  to  fly 

And  fill  up  the  gap  in  the  field. 
Then,  fathers  and  brothers,  fond  husbands  and  lovers, 

March,  march  bravely  on,  we  will  stay, 
Alone  in  our  sorrow,  to  pray  on  each  morrow, 

For  our  loved  ones — the  ordered  away. 


48  CULLINGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY. 

GONE    TO   THE    BATTLE-FIELD. 

JOHN  ANTROBUS. 

The  reaper  has  left  the  field 

The  mower  has  left  the  plain, 

And  the  reaper's  hook  and  the  mower's  scythe 

Are  changed  to  the  sword  again; 

For  the  voice  of  a  hundred  years  ago, 

When  Freedom  struck  her  mightiest  blow, 

Thrills  every  heart  and  brain. 

The  wayside  mill  is  still, 

And  the  wheel  drips  all  alone, 

For  the  miller's  brother  and  son  and  sire 

And  the  miller's  self  have  gone; 

And  their  wives  and  daughters  tarrying  still 

With  smiles  and  tears  about  the  mill, 

Wave,  wave  their  heroes  on. 

The  grain  is  full  and  ripe, 

And  the  harvest  moon  is  nigh, 

But  the  farmer's  son  is  among  the  slain 

And  the  father  heard  the  cry, 

And  his  ancient  eyes  flashed  fires  of  old, 

His  hoary  head  rose  strong  and  bold, 

As,  wild,  he  hurried  by. 

The  corn  is  yet  afield, 

But  many  a  stalk  is  red, 

Yet  not  with  the  autumn  tassel  stained, 

But  the  blood  of  heroes  shed. 

And  their  blood  cries  out  from  Heaven  of  slain, 

Oh,  brothers,  leave  the  sheaves  of  grain, 

On,  to  the  fields  of  the  dead. 

But  every  quiet  farm, 

Whence  father  and  son  had  gone, 

The  fairest  daughters  of  the  land, 

Brave-hearted  cheer  us  on; 

With  the  tender  smiles  that  shelter  tears, 

And  words  to  thrill  a  soldier's  ears, 

When  bloody  fields  are  won. 

Scarcely  the  form  of  man 

Was  seen  on  the  long  highway, 

But  patriot  age,  whose  withered  hands 

Stretched  feebly  up  to  pray, 

And  children,  whose  voices  haunt  us  still, 

Gathered  on  every  knoll  and  hill, 

Cheering  us  on  our  way. 

Yonder,  with  feeble  limbs, 

A  matron  with  silver  hair, 

Knelt  trembling  down  on  the  soldier's  path, 

And  breathed  to  Heaven  a  prayer, 

With  quivering  lips  and  streaming  eyes, 

O,  God,  preserve  these  gallant  boys, 

In  battle  be  Thou  there. 


CULLING S  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY.          49 

O,  soldiers  such  as  these, 

Like  household  memories  come, 

For  a  thousand  prayers  ascend  to-day 

From  those  we  left  at  home. 

For  the  red,  red  field  to-night  may  be 

Our  couch,  our  grave,  while  victory 

Shall  shout  above  our  tomb. 

In  battle's  bloody  hour 

These  pictures  shall  arise, 

Of  mothers,  sisters,  wives  and  homes, 

And  red  and  streaming  eyes; 

And  every  arm  shall  stronger  be, 

For  home,  for  God,  for  liberty, 

And  strike  while  mercy  dies. 

Headquarters  Ninth  Virginia  Regiment  Volunteers. 


SOUTHERN   "RALLY  'ROUND  THE   FLAG   BOYS." 

(A.  D.  1862.) 

(Battle  Song.) 

We  are  marching  to  the  field,  boys, 

We're  going  to  the  fight, 
Shouting  the  battle  cry  of  "Freedom." 
And  we  bear  the  Heavenly  cross, 

For  our  cause  is  in  the  right, 
Shouting  the  battle-cry  of  "Freedom." 

Chorus : 

Our  rights  forever,  hurrah!  boys,  hurrah! 

Down  with  the  tyrants,  raise  the  Southern  Cross, 
And  we'll  rally  'round  that  flag,  boys, 

We'll  rally  once  again, 
Shouting  the  battle  cry  of  "Freedom." 

Chorus : 

We'll  meet  the  Yankee  hosts,  boys, 

With  fearless  hearts  and  true, 
Shouting  the  battle-cry  of  "Freedom;" 
And  we'll  show  the  dastard  minions 

What  Southern  pluck  can  do, 
Shouting  the  battle-cry  of  "Freedom." 

Chorus : 

We'll  fight  them  to  the  last,  boys, 

If  we  fall  in  the  strife 
Shouting  the  battle-cry  of  "Freedom." 

Our  comrades — noble  boys! 

Will  avenge  us,  life  for  life, 
Shouting  the  battle-cry  of  "Freedom." 


50  UL LINGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY. 


Chorus : 

To  be  free  from  Puritan  yoke, 
We  are  going  to  the  fight, 

Shouting  the  battle-cry  of  "Freedom. 

And  the  victory  shall  be  ours, 
For  we  are  rising  in  our  might, 

Shouting  the  battle-cry  of  "Freedom. 

Chorus : 

Lo!  we're  springing  to  the  call, 
From  the  Bast  and  from  the  West, 

Shouting  the  battle-cry  of  "Freedom. 

And  we'll  hurl  the  Yankee  crew 
From  the  "land  we  love"  the  best, 

Shouting  the  battle-cry  of  "Freedom. 


VIRGINIA'S  CALL  TO  ARMS. 

Come  from  your  mountain  regions, 

Come  from  your  plains  afar! 
Virginians,  come  by  legions, 

Come  panoplied  for  war! 
From  every  hill  and  valley, 

From  cities  and  from  farms, 
From  every  village  rally, 

Rise  up,  prepare,  to  arms! 

Who  calls  us  from  our  borders? 

Who  bids  us  leave  our  toil? 
Whence  come  these  martial  orders, 

And  why  this  great  turmoil? 

'Tis  I,  my  sons,  no  other! 

'Tis  I,  Virginia,  calls; 
I  am  your  common  Mother, 

For  I  have  borne  you  all. 

That  Mother — look  upon  her! 

Will  you  forsake  her  now, 
And  suffer  foul  dishonor 

To  brand  her  sacred  brow? 

Go  forth,  my  sons,  to  battle, 

As  went  your  sires  of  yore, 
'Mid  cannon's  boom  and  rattle. 

Drive  the  invader  from  my  shore. 

A.  D.  1862.  ANONYMOUS. 

I  will  be  glad  to  discover  the  author. 
Recited  by  Miss  Lee  Simpson,  of  Petersburg,  Va. 


CULLINGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY.          51 

SONG  OF  THE  SOUTHERN   SOLDIER. 

(By  P.  E.  C.) 
Tune — "Barclay  and  Perkins'  Drayman." 

I'm  a  soldier,  you  see,  that  oppression  has  made. 

I  don't  fight  for  pay  or  for  booty, 
But  I  wear  in  my  hat  a  blue  cockade, 

Placed  there  by  the  fingers  of  Beauty. 
The  South  is  my  home,  where  a  black  man  is  black, 

And  a  white  man  there  is  a  white  man, 
Now  I'm  tired  of  listening  to  Northern  clack, 

Let  us  see  what  they'll  do  in  a  fight,  man. 

The  Yankees  are  cute,  they  have  managed  some  how 

Their  business  and  ours  to  settle; 
They  make  all  we  want  from  a  pin  to  a  plow, 

Now  we'll  show  them  some  Southern  metal. 
We  have  had  just  enough  of  their  Northern  law 

That  robbed  us  so  long  of  our  right,  man, 
And  too  much  of  their  cursed  abolition  jaw — 

Now  we'll  see  what  they'll  do  in  a  fight,  man. 

Their  parsons  will  open  their  sanctified  jaws 

And  cant  of  our  slave-growing  sin,  sir; 
They  pocket  the  profits  while  preaching  the  laws 

And  manage  our  cotton  to  spin,  sir. 
Their  incomes  are  nice  on  our  sugar  and  rice, 

Though  against  it  the  hypocrites  write,  sir; 
Now  our  dander  is  up  and  they'll  soon  smell  a  mice 

If  we  once  get  them  into  a  fight,  sir. 

Our  cotton  bales  once  made  a  good  barricade, 

And  can  still  do  the  State  a  good  service, 
With  them  and  the  boys  of  the  blue  cockade, 

There  is  power  enough  to  preserve  us. 
£o  shoulder  your  rifles,  my  boys,  for  defense, 

In  the  cause  of  our  freedom  and  right,  man. 
If  there's  no  other  way  to  learn  them  sense 

We  may  teach  them  a  lesson  in  fight,  man. 

The  stars  that  are  growing  so  fast  on  our  flags, 

We  treasure  as  liberty's  pearls,  sir, 
And  stainless  we'll  bear  them,  though  shot  into  rags, 

They  were  fixed  by  the  hands  of  our  girls,  sir. 
And  fixed  they  shall  be  in  our  National  sky, 

To  guide  through  the  future  aright,  man, 
And  young  cousin  Sam,  with  their  gleam  in  his  eye, 

May  dare  the  whole  world  to  fight,  man. 

Note. — The  foregoing  lines  were  written  on  the  8th  of 
January,  1861,  for  a  friend  who  had  intended  to  sing  them  in 
the  theatre,  but  thought  at  the  time  to  be  too  much  in  the 
Secession  spirit. 

Cousin  Sam — or  Confederate  States. 

— Richmond  Examiner. 


52  CULLINGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY. 


MARYLAND,   MY  MARYLAND. 

The  despot's  heel  is  on  thy  shore, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland  ! 
His  torch  is  at  thy  temple  door, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland! 
Avenge  the  patriotic  gore, 
That  flowed  the  streets  of  Baltimore, 
And  be  the  battle-queen  of  yore, 
Maryland,  my  Maryland! 

Hark  to  a  wand'ring  son's  appeal, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland! 
My  Mother  State,  to  thee  I  kneel, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland! 
For  life  or  death,  for  woe  or  weal, 
Thy  peerless  chivalry  reveal, 
And  gird  thy  beauteous  limbs  with  steel, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland! 

Thou  wilt  not  cower  in  the  dust, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland! 
Thy  gleaming  sword  shall  never  rust, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland! 
Remember  Carroll's  sacred  trust; 
Remember  Howard's  warlike  thrust, 
And  all  thy  slumberers  in  the  dust, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland! 

Come,  'tis  the  red  dawn  of  the  day, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland! 
Come,  with  thy  panoplied  array, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland! 
With  Ringgold's  spirit  for  the  fray, 
With  Watson's  blood  at  Monterey, 
With  fearless  Low  and  dashing  May, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland! 

Come,  for  the  shield  is  bright  and  strong, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland! 
Come,  for  thy  dalliance  does  thee  wrong, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland! 
Come,  to  thine  own  heroic  throng, 
That  stalks  with  liberty  along, 
And  gives  a  new  key  to  thy  song, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland! 

Dear  Mother,  burst  the  tyrant's  chain, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland! 
Virginia  should  not  call  in  vain, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland! 
She  meets  her  sisters  on  the  plain, 
"Sic  semper"  is  the  proud  refrain 
That  baffles  minions  back  again, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland! 


CULLINGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY.          53 

I  see  the  blush  upon  thy  cheek 

Maryland,  my  Maryland! 
But  thou  wast  ever  bravely  meek, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland! 
But  lo!  there  serges  forth  a  shriek, 
From  hill  to  hill,  from  creek  to  creek, 
Potomac  calls  to  Chesapeake, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland! 

Thou  wilt  not  yield  the  vandal  toll, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland! 
Thou'lt  never  crook  to  his  control, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland! 
Better  the  fire  upon  thee  roll, 
Better  the  blade,  the  shot,  the  bowl, 
Than  crucifixion  of  the  soul, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland! 

I  hear  the  distant  thunder  hum, 

Maryland,  rny  Maryland! 
The  Old  Line  bugle,  fife  and  drum, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland! 
She  is  not  dead,  nor  deaf,  nor  dumb, 
Huzza!  she  spurns  the  Northern  scum, 
She  breathes,  she  burns,  she'll  come!  she'll  come! 

Maryland,  my  Maryland  ! 

The  above  is  the  true  version  as  sung  by  Miss  Nora  David 
son's  pupils  in  a  concert  benefit  of  Bollingbrook  Hospital, 
A.  D.  1862,  assisted  by  Southern  poet  and  actor  Harry  Macarthy. 


HURRAH  ! 
By  a  Mississippian. 

Hurrah  for  the  Southern  Confederate  States, 
With  their  banner  of  red,  white  and  blue  ! 

Hurrah  for  their  daughters,  the  fairest  of  earth, 
And  her  sons  ever  loyal  and  true. 

Hurrah  and  Hurrah  for  her  brave  volunteers, 

Enlisted  for  freedom  or  death  ! 
Hurrah  for  Jeff  Davis,  Commander-in-Chief, 

And  three  cheers  for  the  Palmetto  wreath. 

Hurrah  for  each  heart  that  is  right  in  the  cause, 
That  cause  we'll  protect  with  our  lives  ! 

Hurrah  for  the  first  one  who  dies  on  the  field, 
And  Hurrah  for  each  one  that  survives. 

Hurrah  for  the  South  !  Shout  Hurrah  and  Hurrah  ! 

O'er  her  soil  she'll  no  tyrant  have  sway, 
In  peace  or  in  war  we  will  ever  be  found 
Invincible  now  and  for  aye. 

Mobile  Register. 


54  CULLINGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY. 


THE  HEART  OF  LOUISIANA. 

O!  let  me  weep,  while  o'er  our  land 
Vile  discord  strides,  with  sullen  brow, 

And  drags  to  earth  with  ruthless  hand, 
The  flag  no  tyrant's  power  could  bow. 

Trailed  in  the  dust,  englorious  laid, 

While  one  by  one  her  stars  retire, 
And  pride  and  power  pursue  the  raid 

That  bids  our  liberty  expire. 

Aye!  let  me  weep,  for  surely  Heaven 

In  anger  views  the  unholy  strife, 
And  angels  weep  that  thus  is  riven 

The  tie  that  gave  to  freedom  life. 

I  cannot  shout,  I  will  not  sing 

Loud  poems  o'er  a  severed  tie, 
And  draped  in  woe,  in  tears  I  fling 

Our  State's  new  flag  to  greet  the  sky. 

I  can  but  choose,  while  senseless  zeal 
And  lawless  hate  is  clothed  with  power, 

The  bitter  cup,  but  still  I  feel 
The  sadness  of  this  parting  hour. 

I  know  that  thousands  of  hearts  will  bleed, 
While  loud  huzzas  the  welkin  ring; 

The  thoughtless  crowd  will  shout  Secede, 
But  ah!  will  this  the  conflict  end. 

Oh!  let  me  weep,  and  prostrate  lie, 

Low  at  the  footstool  of  my  God; 
I  cannot  breathe  one  note  of  joy, 

While  yet  I  feel  his  chastening  rod. 

Sure  we  have  as  a  nation  sinned, 

Let  every  heart  its  folly  own, 
And  sackcloth  as  a  girdle  bind, 

And  mourn,  our  glorious  Union,  gone! 

Sisters,  farewell,  you  know  not  half 
The  pain  your  pride,  injustice  give; 

You  spurn  our  cause  and  lightly  laugh 
And  hope  no  more  the  wrong  shall  live. 

— New  Orleans  Delta. 


FEMALE  SOLDIERS— A.   D.,  1862. 

A  beautiful  sight  was  witnessed  on  Monday  last.  On  the 
passage  of  the  Clinch  Rifles  from  Augusta  to  Millen,  at  several 
points  young  and  beautiful  ladies  numbering  from  60  to  80, 
were  ranged  along  the  railroad,  with  rifles  in  their  hands,  and 
presented  arms  to  the  Clinch  Rifles  as  they  passed. 

Augusta,  Ga.,  and  Charleston,  S.  C. 


CULLINGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY.  55 

MISSOURI. 
Words  and  music  by  Harry  Macarthy. 

Missouri!  Missouri!  bright  land  of  the  West, 

Where  the  way-worn  emigrant  always  found  rest, 

Who  gave  to  the  farmer  reward  for  the  toil 

Expended  in  breaking  and  turning  the  soil, 

Awake  to  the  notes  of  the  bugle  and  drum! 

Awake  from  your  peace,  for  the  tyrant  hath  come; 

And  swear  by  your  honor  that  your  chains  shall  be  riven, 

And  add  your  bright  Star  to  our  Flag  of  Eleven. 

They'd  force  you  to  join  in  their  unholy  fight 

With  fire  and  with  sword,  with  power  and  with  might, 

'Gainst  fathers  and  brothers  and  kindred  near, 

'Gainst  women  and  children  and  all  you  hold  dear; 

They've  o'errun  your  soil,  insulted  your  press, 

Murdered  your  citizens,  shown  no  redress; 

So  swear  by  your  honor  that  your  chains  shall  be  riven, 

And  add  your  bright  Star  to  our  Flag  of  Eleven. 

Missouri!  Missouri!  where  is  thy  proud  fame? 
Free  land  of  the  West,  thy  once-cherished  name? 
Trod  in  the  dust  by  a  tyrant's  command, 
Proclaiming  there's  martial  law  in  the  land. 
Men  of  Missouri!  strike  without  fear! 
McCulloch,  Jackson  and  brave  men  are  near; 
Swear  by  your  honor  that  your  chains  shall  be  riven, 
And  add  your  bright  Star  to  our  Flag  of  Eleven. 


"THERE'S  LIFE  IN   THE  OLD  LAND  YET." 

By  blue  Patapsco's  billowy  dash, 

The  Tyrant's  war  shout  comes 
Along  with  the  cymbal's  fitful  clash, 

And  the  sound  of  sullen  drums. 
We  heed  it — we  hear  it — 

With  vengeful  thrill, 
And  we'll  never  forgive  nor  forget! 

There's  faith  in  the  streams — 

There's  hope  in  the  hills — 
And  there's  life  in  the  "Old  Land"  yet. 

Minions  we  sleep,  but  we  are  not  dead, 

We  are  crushed,  we  are  scourged,  we  are  scarred 
We  crouch — 'tis  to  welcome  the  triumph  tread 

Of  the  fearless  Beauregard ; 
Then  woe  to  your  vile,  polluting  hordes 

When  "Southern  Braves"  are  met — 
There's  faith  in  the  streams — 
There's  hope  in  the  hills — 

And  there's  life  in  the  "Old  Land"  yet. 

^-  by  Miss  Tillie  Dimitry,  A.  D.  1862. 


56  CULLING S  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY. 


TEXAS  WAR  SONG. 
March,  march  on,  brave  "Palmetto  boys," 

"Sumter"  and  "Lafayettes"  forward  in  order, 
March,  march,  "Calhoun"  and  "Rifle"  boys; 

All  the  base  Yankees  are  crossing  the  border. 
Banners  are  'round  you  spread, 
Floating  above  jrour  head, 

Soon  shall  the  "Lone  Star"  be  famous  in  story; 
On,  on,  my  gallant  men, 
Victory  be  yours  again; 

Fight  for  your  rights  'till  the  green  sod  is  gory. 
March,  march,  etc. 

Young  wives  and  sisters  have  buckled  your  armour  on, 

Maidens  ye  love  bid  ye  go  to  the  battlefield; 
Strong  arms  and  stout  hearts  have  many  a  victory  won, 

Courage  shall  strengthen  the  weapons  ye  wield. 
Wild  passions  are  storming, 
Dark  schemes  are  forming, 

Deep  snares  are  laid,  but  they  shall  not  enthrall  you, 
Justice  your  cause  shall  greet, 
Laurels  lay  at  your  feet; 

If  each  brave  band  be  but  watchful  and  wary. 
March,  march,  etc. 

Let  fear  and  unmanliness  banish  before  ye. 

Trust  in  the  Rock,  who  will  shelter  the  righteous; 
Plant  firmly  each  step  on  the  soil  of  the  free, 

A  heritage  left  by  the  sires  who  bled  for  us; 
May  each  heart  be  bounding 
When  trumpets  are  sounding, 

And  the  dark  traitors  shall  strive  to  surround  ye, 
The  great  God  of  battle 
Can  still  the  war  rattle, 

And  brighten  the  land  with  a  sunset  of  glory. 


"  LET   HIM    BE   FREE." 

Let  him  be  free — his  prison  bars 

Are  shadows  on  our  fame, 
The  bars  have  gone,  but  a  shade  will  rest 

On  lips  that  soil  his  name. 

Let  him  be  free — not  with  the  leave 

To  keep  a  strict  parole, 
Be  gallant  to  an  open  foe, 

And  show  a  soldier's  soul. 

Let  him  be  free — why  should  we  fear 

A  man  whose  every  foe, 
Unites  in  calling  "true  as  steel," 

And  this  his  life  will  show. 

Is  there  a  craven  lip  has  said, 

"  Imprison  Robert  Lee  ?" 
Then  let  us  all  united  ask 
That  Davis  shall  be  free. 

ANONYMOUS. 
A.  D.  1865. 


CULL  INGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY.          57 


CONFEDERATE  SONG. 

(Written  for  Kirk's  Ferry  Rangers  by  their  captain,  B.  Lloyd 
Nales,  4th  of  July,  1861,  Catahoula,  Louisiana.) 

Rally  'round  our  country's  flag, 
Rally  boys,  nor  do  not  lag; 
Come  from  every  vale  and  crag, 
Sons  of  liberty. 

Northern  vandals  tread  our  shore, 
Forth  they  come  for  blood  and  spoil 
To  the  homes  we've  gained  with  toil, 
Shouting  Slavery! 

Traitorous  Lincoln's  bloody  band 
Now  invades  the  freeman's  land 
Armed  with  sword  and  fire-brand 
'Gainst  the  brave  and  free. 

Arm  ye  then  for  fray  and  fight, 
March  ye  forth  both  day  and  night 
Stop  not  'till  the  foe's  in  sight, 
Sons  of  chivalry. 

In  your  veins  the  blood  still  flows 
Of  brave  men  who  once  arose, 
Burst  the  shackles  of  their  foes — 
Honest  men  and  free. 

Rise  then  in  your  power  and  might, 
Seek  the  spoiler,  brave  the  fight; 
Strike  for  God,  for  Truth,  for  Right, 
Strike  for  Liberty. 


JEFFERSON    DAVIS'  TRUE   NATURE. 


An  Affecting  Scene. 

Just  after  President  Davis'  speech  in  Columbus-  he  was  in 
formed  that  a  Mrs.  -  — ,  an  old  acquaintance  and  once  a 
neighbor  of  his,  who  is  now  an  exile  from  her  home,  was  in 
the  crowd  and  wished  to  see  him.  "  God  bless  her,  where  is 
she,"  said  he,  and  on  her  being  pointed  out,  he  made  for  her, 
and  the  old  lady  for  him.  As  they  met  she  threw  her  arms 
around  him  and  wept  like  a  child,  and  even  the  "iron  man,"  as 
he  was  sometimes  called,  shed  a  tear,  too. 

This  dear  man  would  unbend  and  enter  into  the  sorrows  of 
the  old,  then  turn  and  chat  with  little  children,  thereby  show 
ing  a  tender,  gentle  and  sympathetic  nature. 


58  CULLINGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY 


"OUR  LEE." 

When  falls  the  soldier  brave, 

Dead  at  the  feet  of  wrong  : 
The  poet  sings  and  guards  his  grave 

With  sentinels  of  song. 
"  Songs !  march  ! "  he  gives  command, 

"  Keep  faithful  watch  and  true;" 
The  living  and  dead  of  the  conquered  land 

Have  now  NO  guard  save  you. 

' '  Sad  ballads  !  mark  ye  well , 

Thrice  holy  is  your  trust ! 
Go  out  to  the  fields  where  warriors  fell 

And  sentinel  their  dust." 
And  the  songs  in  stately  rhyme 

And  with  softly  sounding*  tread, 
Go  forth  to  watch  for  a  time — 

When  sleep  the  DEATHLESS  dead. 

When  falls  the  cause  of  Right, 

The  poet  grasps  his  pen, 
And  in  gleaming  letters  of  living  light 

Transmits  the  TRUTH  to  men. 
When  the  flag  of  Justice  fails — 

Ere  its  folds  have  yet  been  furled — 
The  poet  waves  its  folds,  in  WAILS, 

That  reach  far  o'er  the  world. 

When  the  warrior's  sword  is  lowered — 

Ere  its  stainless  sheen  grows  dim — 
The  bard  flings  forth  its  dying  gleam 

On  the  wings  of  a  deathless  hymn. 
"  Fly,  song  !  "  he  says,  who  sings, 

Go  tell  the  world  this  tale — 
Bear  it  afar  on  your  tireless  wings, 

The  RIGHT  will  yet  prevail. 

"Go,  song  !  like  the  thunder's  breath, 

Boom  over  the  world  and  say : 
Brave  men  may  die,  RIGHT  HAS  no  death  ! 

Truth  never  shall  pass  away  !  " 
And  the  songs  with  brave,  sad  face, 

Go  proudly  down  their  way  ; 
Few  last ;  for  all  of  the  human  race — 

Most ;  pass  away  in  a  day. 

We  wait  a  grand  voiced  bard 

AVho,  when  he  sings,  will  send 
•Such  songs  as  will  forever  guard 

The  "  LOST  CAUSE"  to  time's  end. 
J  le  HAS  not  come — he  WILL  ; 

But  when  he  sings,  his  song 
Will  stir  the  world  to  its  depth  and  THIIILL 

True  hearts  with  its  tale  of  wrong. 


CALLINGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY.  59 


The  great  Lost  Cause  STILL  waits — 

Its  bard  has  not  come  yet; 
When  he  shines  through  one  of  to-morrow's  gates 

His  song  shall  never  set, 
But  harps  are  in  every  land 

That  await  a  voice  that  sings — 
And  a  master  hand;  and  the  humblest  hand 

May  gently  touch  its  strings. 

I  sing  with  a  voice  too  low 

To  be  heard  beyond  to-day — 
In  minor  keys  of  my  people's  woe, 

But  my  songs  pass  away. 
To-morrow  hears  them  not; 

To-morrow  belongs  to  fame; 
My  songs,  like  the  birds',  will  be  forgot,"*! 

And  forgotten  will  be  my  name. 

And  yet,  who  knows? — betimes 

The  grandest  songs  depart; 
While  the  gentle  and  humble  and  low-toned  rhymes 

Re-echo  from  heart  to  heart. 
But  ah  !  IF  in  song  or  speech — 

In  major  or  minor  key — 
I  could  to  the  end  of  the  ages  reach 

I  would  whisper  the  name  of  ' '  LEE.  ' ' 

But  when,  "  Grand  Bard,"  you  come  to  sing, 

Let  me  give  you  the  cord  and  key 
To  attune  each  note  of  your  grand  harp's  string 

To  the  name  and  the  fame  of  Lee, 
"  Forth  from  its  scabbard !  never  hand 

Waved  sword  from  stain  as  free, 
Nor  purer  sword  led  a  braver  band, 

Nor  braver  bled  for  a  brighter  land. 
Nor  brighter  land  had  a  cause  more  grand 

Nor  cause  a  man  like  LEE." 

FATHER  RYAN. 


WITTY   SOUTHERN    GIRL. 

The  Yankees  having  elected  A y  K y,  a  Union 

man,  judge  in  the  Jefferson,  Va.,  District,  one  of  them  asked  a 
young  lady  what  she  thought  of  it?  She  replied  that  she 
thought,  under  the  circumstances,  it  was  very  appropriate. 
Being  surprised  at  such  a  reply  from  a  Southern  lady,  the 
Yankee  asked  her  why  she  thought  so?  "Because,"  she  re 
plied,  "  as  you  have  kept  your  horses  in  the  court  house,  and 
thus  made  a  stable  of  the  temple  of  justice.,  it  is  altogether 
proper  that  you  should  put  an  ass  on  the  bench." 

Staunton,  Va. 


60          CU LUNGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY. 

Lines  written  by  the  Earl  of  Derby,  on  the  fly  leaf  of  a  copy 
of  his  translation  of  "  Homer's  Iliad,"  and  presented  by  the 
Earl  to  Robert  E.  Lee. 

The  grand  old  bard,  who  never  dies, 
Receive  him  in  our  native  tongue; 

I  send  thee — but  with  weeping  eyes, 
The  story  that  he  sung. 

Thy  Troy  has  fallen — thy  dear  land 
Is  marred  beneath  the  spoiler's  heel, 

I  cannot  trust  my  trembling  hand 
To  write  the  grief  I  feel. 

Oh,  home  of  tears  !     But  let  her  bear  , 

This  blazon,  to  the  end  of  time: 
No  nation  rose  so  white  and  fair, 

None  fell  so  pure  of  crime. 

The  widow's  moan,  the  orphan's  wail, 
Are  round  thee;  but  in  truth  be  strong; 

Eternal  right,  though  all  things  fail, 
Can  never  be  made  wrong. 

An  angel's  heart,  an  angel's  mouth 

(Not  Homer's),  could  alone  for  me 
Hymn  forth  the  great  Confederate  South, 

Virginia  first — then  Lee. 
Contributed  by  Major  R.  W.  Hunter. 


THE   JACKET  OF   GREY. 

Fold  it  up  carefully,  lay  it  aside, 
Tenderly  touch  it,  look  on  it  with  pride; 
For  dear  must  it  be  to  our  hearts  evermore, 
The  jacket  of  grey  our  loved  soldier  boy  wore. 

Can  we  forget  when  he  joined  the  brave  band 
Who  rose  in  defense  of  our  dear  Southern  land. 
And.  in  his  bright  youth,  hurried  on  to  the  fray, 
How  proudly  he  donned  it — the  jacket  of  grey. 

His  fond  mother  blessed  him  and  looked  up  above. 
Commending  to  Heaven  the  child  of  her  love; 
What  anguish  was  her's  mortal  tongue  may  not  say, 
When  he  passed  from  our  sight  in  the  jacket  of  grey. 

But  her  country  had  called  and  she  would  not  repine, 
Though  costly  the  sacrifice  placed  on  the  shrine; 
Her  heart's  dearest  hopes  on  the  altar  she  lay, 
When  she  sent  out  her  boy  in  the  jacket  of  grey. 

Months  passed,  and  war's  thunders  rolled  over  the  land, 
Unsheathed  was  the  sword  and  lighted  the  brand; 
We  heard  in  the  distance  the  sound  of  the  fray. 
And  prayed  for  our  boy  in  the  jacket  of  grey. 


CULLINGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY.          61 


ROBERT   E.  LEE. 

The  drapery  of  Heaven  hung  low 

In  dark  and  gloomy  shrouds; 
The  angels  used  the  weeping  stars 

In  pinning  back  the  clouds. 
The  shades  of  gloom  and  woe  prevailed 

O'er  all  the  land  and  sea, 
And  eyes  that  were  unused  to  tears 

Now  wept  for  Robert  Lee. 

A  Christian  soldier,  true  and  brave 

Beloved,  near  and  far, 
He  was  the  first  in  time  of  peace, 

And  first  in  time  of  war. 
Virginia  never  reared  a  son 

More  brave  and  good  than  he, 
Save  one,  and  he  was  Washington, 

Who  lived  and  died  like  Lee. 

The  nation  wept  when  cruel  death 

Into  his  mansion  stole; 
But  angels,  in  the  "  Better  Land," 

Received  his  peaceful  soul. 
For  that  belongs  to  God  alone, 

He  gave  it  to  Him  free, 
And  left  the  South  the  fame  and  name 

Of  Robert  Edward  Lee. 

His  peaceful  sword  is  laid  away, 

His  work  on  earth  is  done, 
He  loved  the  people  in  the  South, 

They  idolized  their  son. 
There's  not  a  woman,  man  or  child. 

I  care  not  where  they  be, 
Throughout  the  still,  sweet  sunny  South, 

But  loves  the  name  of  Lee. 

He  had  no  enemies  on  earth, 

There's  not  a  voice  that  can 
Say  aught  against  the  name  of  Lee, 

The  soldier  or  the  man. 
And  that  would  be  a  proud,  cold  heart, 

That  e'er  would  cease  to  be 
The  place  where  memory  wrote  the  name 

Of  Robert  Edward  Lee. 

Bow  down  thy  heads,  ye  Southern  sons, 

A  few  brief  moments  spend, 
In  weeping  for  the  loss  of  one 

Who  lived  and  died  your  friend. 
He  loved  you  as  he  loved  his  life, 

And  when  on  bended  knee, 
Look  up,  and  let  the  angels  hear 

Your  prayer,  "  God  bless  our  Lee." 

Composed  by  WILL  S.  HAYS. 


62          CULLINGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY. 

PETITION 
For  the  Pardon  of  President  Jefferson  Davis. 

Petersburg,  Va.,  October,  1865 
President  Johnson: 

Honored  Sir: 

We,  the  ladies  of  the  "  Cockade  City  of  the  Union,"  approach 
your  excellency  requesting  executive  clemency  in  behalf  of 
our  beloved  captive  chief,  President  Jefferson  Davis,  who  is 
bound  to  each  one  of  our  section  by  the  indissoluble  ties  of 
friendship,  love  and  veneration. 

Called  by  the  unanimous  voice  of  the  people  of  the  South  to 
lead  them,  as  Joshua  of  old,  he  accepted  the  honor  of  being 
enshrined  in  the  history  of  the  Nation  as  its  chief,  forced  there 
by  the  free  suffrage  of  a  united  people. 

From  the  moment  of  his  coercion  up  to  the  hour  of  his  cap 
ture,  he  commanded  the  respect,  not  only  of  the  people  of  the 
Confederate  States,  but  of  the  world  at  large,  and  especially 
of  the  United  States  Government. 

His  opinions  were  received  everywhere  as  the  will  of  the 
people  whose  mouthpiece  he  was. 

He  has  our  love  for  every  virtue  which  adorned  the  Chris 
tian,  the  gentleman,  and  the  patriot,  shone  forth  in  every  act 
with  the  brilliancy  of  the  noon-day  sun,  reflecting  honor  on 
his  country,  dignity  upon  his  government  and  purity  upon  the 
social  circle. 

He  has  our  veneration,  for,  called  by  eight  millions  of  free 
men  to  rule,  every  creed  and  political  party  gave  in  immediate 
and  unrestrained  obedience;  followed  where  he  pointed  the 
way;  obeyed  without  a  murmur  the  laws  promulgated  by  his 
counsel,  and  cheerfully  gave  up  every  comfort  for  the  public 
good  at  his  suggestion.  Now  we  lie  powerless  at  the  feet  of 
a  victorious  government. 

Our  brave  brothers  sleep  in  their  honored  graves,  or  walk 
beside  us  bearing  on  their  persons  marks  of  the  fierce  conflict 
which  has  tried  their  courage  and  manliness,  with  every  com 
fort  buried  in  the  general  wreck  of  war. 

With  naught  but  their  energy  and  honor  remaining,  having 
given  in  their  adhesion  to  the  laws  of  the  land  and  taken  the 
oath  of  fidelity  to  the  United  States  Government,  they  have 
become  quiet  citizens  of  the  same,  only  asking  to  be  permitted 
to  remove  the  numerous  vestiges  of  the  conflict,  which,  you, 
sir,  seem  not  only  willing,  but  determined  to  accord  us. 

With  your  hand  upon  the  helm  (Constitutional  Rights),  you 
are  giving  to  the  world  a  sublime  picture  of  heroic  fortitude 

The  tempest,  though  subsiding,  still  causes  the  "  Ship  of 


CULLINGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY.          63 

State"  to  plunge  and  reel,  yet,  upheld  by  justice  and  patri 
ots  of  the  land,  she  may  be  anchored  in  the  haven  of  Constitu 
tional  Rights,  as  laid  down  by  our  noble  sires. 

The  ark  was  borne  upon  the  waters  of  wrath  yet  lifted  to 
the  summit  of  a  mountain,  it  there  remained  a  monument  to 
God's  mercy,  and  from  it  a  dove  was  sent,  which  returned 
with  an  olive  branch. 

Will  you  not  send  out  the  dove  (Hope)  to  him  whose  only 
fault  was  ''  he  did  not  reject  the  dangerous  honor  with  more 
stability." 

Will  you  not  permit  the  Government  to  be  the  ark,  now 
borne  above  the  waters  of  strife,  and  its  chief  banner  the  olive 
branch  ?  Grant  this,  sir,  so  that  the  prayers  of  wives,  moth 
ers  and  children  may  ascend  to  the  Throne  of  Grace  from  the 
deepest  recesses  of  their  hearts,  not  only  for  the  welfare  of 
the  country,  but  also  for  your  long  life  and  prosperity. 

You  would  feel  that  you  had  not  only  committed  an  act  of 
justice,  but  mercy,  to  release  one  whose  days  aro  numbered 
and  whose  feet  are  already  chilled  by  the  breezes  from  that 
"  undiscovered  country,"  and  to  hear  in  your  dreams,  as  in 
your  waking  moments,  borne  upon  the  wings  of  the  howling 
winter  tempest,  the  whispered  zephyrs  of  spring,  the  hum  of 
summer's  life  and  the  soft,  dewy  air  of  autumn,  the  prayers 
from  millions  of  hearts. 

"  God  bless  him  in  time  and  eternity,  for  His  mercy  endur- 
eth  forever." 

Your  Petitioners, 

V.  E.  D 


WAR   FACT  OF  ALABAMA. 

Ex-Governor  Chapman,  of  Alabama,  one  of  the  sturdy  old 
patriots  who  are  honored  by  the  special  hatred  of  the  Yankees, 
suffered  seriously  in  wanton  spiteful  depredations  on  his 
property  near  Huntsville,  Ala.  Thinking  that  some  of  the 
doings  of  the  Yankee  villains  were  beyond  orders,  he  waited 
on  the  Yankee  commander  (Colonel  Alexander),  and  stated 
his  case: 

Colonel. — "  Well,  Governor,  I  don't  think  you  have  any 
property  about  here." 

"Well,  sir,  if  it  is  not  mine,  be  so  kind  as  to  inform  me  whose 
it  is?" 

Colonel. — "  It  is  the  property  of  the  Government  of  the 
United  States,  sir." 

Governor. — "  Ah  !  very  well,  Colonel,  I  have  come  to  inform 
you,  then,  that  your  soldiers  are  treating  the  property  of  the 
United  States  Government  d d  badly.  Good  day,  Colonel." 


t>4  CULLINGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY 


THE  PRISONER  OF  STATE. 

I  see  him  in  his  loathsome  cell, 

The  martyr  of  a  ruined  cause, 
The  haughty  chief,  yet  loved  so  well 
By  millions,  in  whose  bosoms  swell 

The  smothered  feelings  of  applause. 
A  patriot  caged  without  a.  crime; 
And  ah!  how  changed.     There  was  a  time 

When,  proud,  erect,  with  flashing  eye, 
He  Jed  his  country  on, 

Amidst  the  shouts  of  victory; 
Her  starry  ensign  waving  o'er  him, 

'Till  every  star  shone  forth  a  sun, 
And  glory  blazed  around,  before  him; 

A  time  when  in  the  Senate  hall, 

"The  noblest  Roman  of  them  all." 
Admiring  statesmen  o'er  him  hung 

In  silence  and  in  dim  eclipse, 
To  catch  the  music  of  his  tongue, 

And  gather  wisdom  from  his  lips. 
Now  thin  and  pale,  with  sunken  cheek, 
And  clouded  eye,  in  vain  you  seek 
The  semblance  of  the  nervous  form 
That  towered  amidst  the  battle's  storm, 
Or  settled  grave  affairs  of  State, 
The  arbiter  of  high  debate. 
In  that  lone  fortress  of  the  sea, 

Around  whose  base  the  billows  flow 
Continuously  and  mournfully, 

A  never  ending  dirge  of  woe. 
Disease  and  torture,  worse  than  death, 

Have  done  their  fearful  work,  and  he 
Has  little  left  of  strength  and  breath 

To  bear  the  insults,  scorn  and  hate 

That  ever  on  the  fallen  wait, 

The  helpless  and  the  desolate. 


How  well  they  guard  the  conquered  brave, 
With  locks  and  bolts  and  dashing  waves, 
Tramp,  tramp!  1  hear  by  night  and  day; 

The  watchful  soldier's  measured  tread, 
And  through  the  iron  bars  alway 
A  cold  and  stony  eye  is  seen 

Glaring  on  wall  and  floor  and  bed, 
Leaving  no  unseen  corner  there 
For  sacred  grief  or  soothing  prayer. 

He  sleeps — a  moment's  respite  given 
To  torture,  by  indulgent  Heaven; 
His  haggard  features  in  repose, 
A  look  of  happiness  disclose, 
I  see  again  the  old  sweet  smile 
Play  o'er  his  pallid  lips  awhile; 
He  dreams  of  other  days  and  home — 
Joy  for  the  absent  sire  has  come; 


CULL/NGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY.          65 


His  faithful  wife  bends  o'er  him  now; 
Her  soft  hand  cools  his  fevered  brow; 
His  children  climb  upon  his  knee, 
And  he  is  honored,  blest  and  free. 

Hark!  to  the  harshly  opening  door, 

And  clank  of  chains — his  dream  is  o'er, 

What!  fetters  for  the  dying  man? 

Is  this  America?  and  can 

Such  deed  be  done,  with  loud  acclaim, 

In  Christian  times?  "O,  shame!  O,  shame!" 

But  vain  the  effort  to  entreat, 

They  bind  the  shackles  on  his  feet, 

And  on  the  cold  slabs,  sinking  there 

He  lies  in  comfortless  despair. 

And  this  is  justice — this  the  boast 

Of  "Hail  Columbia"  the  grand! 
Fill  up  the  goblet,  let  the  toast 

Go  grandly  round  from  hand  to  hand, 
With  drunken  glee  and  fierce  delight. 

(Though  millions  groan  beneath  the  rod, 
What  matter,  they  are  only  white ! ) 
Drink,  one  and  all,  with  main  and  might, 

Freedom  to  Afric's  sable  band! 
Glory  to  Abolition's  god! 

And  him  who  gave  the  high  command 

To  chain  the  noblest  in  the  land. 
.A.  D.  1865.  ANONYMOUS. 


JUST  BEFORE   THE   BATTLE,   MOTHER. 

Just  before  the  battle,  Mother, 

I  was  drinking  mountain  dew, 
But  when  I  saw  the  ''Rebels"  marching 

To  the  rear  I  quickly  fle\ysft 
Where  the  stragglers  were  flying, 

_Thin Idteff-  of  their  homes  and  wives, 
Twas  not  the  Rebs  1  feared,  dear  Mother, 

But  our  own  dear  precious  lives. 

Chorus: 
Farewell,  Mother!  for  you'll  never 

See  my  name  amongst  the  slain, 
For  if  I  only  can  skeedaddle, 

Dear  Mother,  I'll  come  home  again. 

I  hear  the  bugle  sounding,  Mother, 
My  soul  is  eager  for  the  fray. 

I  guess  I'll  hide  behind  some  cover, 
And  then  I  shall  be  all  O.  K. 

Discretion's  the  better  part  of  valor, 
At  least  I've  often  heard  you  say: 
That  "he  who  loves  his  life,  dear  Mother, 
Won't  fight  if  he  can  run  away." 

Chorus : 
To  "Phoby  Stubbs,"  A.  D.  1864. 


66  CU LUNGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY. 


IN   THE   FORTRESS   BY  THE  SEA. 

A  Fragment  by  W.  E.  CAMERON. 

Silence,  Oh  mocking  sea  ! 
Hush  thy  tone,  for  it  angers  me; 
Singing  thus  ever  of  what  is  free, 
And  of  that  which  cannot  be. 

Thou  troublest  even  now  my  sleep, 
Rousing  an  echo  fierce  and  strong 
In  my  soul  pulsating  to  thy  song, 

With  an  agony  wild  and  deep; 
Stirring  a  dream  in  my  tranced  heart, 
So  glad  that  it  waketh  with  sudden  start, 

To  end,  Oh  God  !  the  pitiless  stone 
Of  my  dungeon  and  its  iron  bars, 

To  echo  with  groans  thy  thunder  tone, 

And  to  pant  for  the  sight  of  the  sun  or  stars, 

Or  a  plunge  in  the  welling  deep. 

Death  !  how  I  pine  for  light  and  air  ! 
Gasping,  I  climb  to  the  window  there; 
Pressing  my  cheek  to  its  narrow  hole 
I  catch  the  spray  as  the  breakers  roll 

To  the  uttermost  shores  of  earth. 
"  Free,  ye  are  free,  oh  waves  !  I  cry, 
"  Bear  my  kiss  and  my  yearning  sigh 

Back  to  the  land  of  my  birth," 
But  they  go  unanswering  by. 

And  then  appeals  to  memory 

The  ocean's  undertone, 

The  sad  and  ceaseless  monotone, 

Which  comes  with  the  evening  calm, 

Out  of  the  twilight  sea — 
Comes  to  tell  of  a  quiet  home, 
All  shadowed  o'er  by  my  prison  gloom, 

That  is  sad  because  I  am — 
Of  one  whose  violet  eyes  grow  dim, 
As  she  murmurs  "  God  watch  over  him." 
And  my  dank  hair  bristles  to  hear  the  peal 
Of  my  own  wild  laugh  at  the  moods  I  feel, 
And  frenzied  again  as  the  restless  waves, 
I  fret  while  the  wind  in  the  darkness  raves 
Till  my  tortured  senses  reel. 

Is  it  strange  that  I  murmur  and  pine? 

Lying  here  like  slavish  hound, 

That  I  murmur  at  being  thus  chained  and  bound  ? 
Or  is  it  strange  that,  thus  long  confined, 
Chaos  should  reign  in  my  stormy  mind  ? 
Cease,  Oh,  remorseless  sea  ! 
Cease  thy  peal,  for  it  maddens  me; 
Singing  forever  of  what  is  free 
And  of  that  which  can  never  be. 


CULLINGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY.          67 


THE  PRIVATE  SOLDIER. 

To  the  private  soldier  a  fair  meed  of  praise  is  due,and,though 
it  is  so  seldom  given,  and  so  rarely  expected,  that  it  may  be 
considered  out  of  place,  I  cannot,  in  justice  to  myself,  with 
hold  the  opinion  ever  entertained  and  so  often  expressed  dur 
ing  our  struggle  for  independence.  In  the  absence  of  the  in 
struction  and  discipline  of  old  armies,  and  of  the  confidence 
which  long  association  produces  between  veterans,  we  have 
had  in  a  great  measure  to  trust  to  the  individuality  and  self- 
reliance  of  the  private  soldier.  Without  the  incentive  or  The 
motive  which  controls  the  officer,  who  hopes  to  live  in  history, 
without  the  hope  of  reward,  and  actuated  only  by  a  sense  of 
duty  and  patriotism,  he  has  in  this  great  contest  justly  judged 
that  the  cause  was  his  own,  and  gone  into  it  with  a  determina 
tion  to  conquer  or  die;  to  be  free  or  not  to  be  at  all.  No  en- 
conium  is  too  high,  no  honor  too  great  for  such  a  soldiery. 
However  much  of  credit  and  glory  may  be  given,  and  probably 
justly  given,  to  the  leaders  in  our  struggle,  history  will  yet 
award  the  main  honor  where  it  is  due — to  the  private  soldier, 
who,  without  hope  of  reward,  and  with  no  other  incentive  than 
•a  consciousness  of  rectitude,  has  encountered  all  the  hard 
ships  and  suffered  all  the  privations.  Well  has  it  been  said: 
The  first  monument  our  Confederacy  rears,  when  our  inde 
pendence  shall  have  been  won,  should  be  a  lofty  shaft,  pure 
and  spotless,  bearing  the  inscription: 

"  To  the  Unknown  and  Unrecorded  Dead." 

Written  by  General  Bragg,  after  the  battle  of  Murfreesboro. 


STONEWALL  JACKSON  UNDER  THE  TABLE. 

Not  long  after  the  battle  of  Bull  Run  a  certain  Major  S , 

of  the  rebel  army,  called  on  General  Joe  Johnston  at  his  head 
quarters  in  Virginia,  arriving  just  in  time  for  dinner,  which 
was  served  in  the  General's  tent.  When  the  meal  was  nearly 
finished  there  was  a  movement  under  the  table,  and  some 
thing  very  like  a  yawn  came  from  beneath  it,  the  Major  at  the 
same  time  feeling  something  heavy  roH  on  his  feet.  Raising 
the  cloth  General  Johnson  looked  down  and  remarked,  laugh 
ing:  "Jackson  smells  the  dinner  at  last;  I  know  he  must  be 
nearly  famished."  "  It  was  the  only  time  I  ever  saw  Stone 
wall  Jackson,"  says  the  Major.  "  He  had  been  without  sleep 
for  three  days  when  he  reached  Johnston's  tent,  and  tumbling 
down  in  the  center  of  it,  the  table  was  set  over  him." 


68  CU LUNGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY. 


• 


STONEWALL   JACKSON    GUARDS   THE   CAMP   TO-NIGHT. 

Previous  to  the  battle  of  Manassas  Stonewall  Jackson  made 
a  heav3r  forced  march  for  the  purpose  of  joining  his  forces  to 
those  in  front  of  the  enemy.  Upon  halting  at  night  the  men 
fell  exhausted  and  sunk  -fe^-«teepr  At  the  hour  for  stationing 
picket  the  officer  of  the  day  went  to  the  General's  tent  and 
said:  "General,  the  men  are  all  wearied,  there  is  scarcely 
one  but  whom  is  asleep.  Shall  I  awake  them  ?" 

"No,"  was  the  reply,  "  Let  them  sleep;  I'll  guard  the  camp- 
to-night." 

And  the  sentinel  of  that  host  that  night  was  their  General. 

'Twas  at  the  dying  of  the  day — 

The  darkness  grew  so  still — 
The  drowsy  chirp  of  evening  birds 

Was  hushed  upon  the  hill. 
Within  the  shadows  of  the  vale 

Slumbered  the  men  of  might, 
And  one  lone  sentinel  paced  his  round 

To  guard  the  camp  that  night. 

A  grave  and  thoughtful  man  was  he, 

With  deep  and  sombre  brow — 
The  dreamful  eye  seemed  musing  o'er 

Some  unaccomplished  vow. 
The  wishful  glance  peered  o'er  the  plain 

Beneath  the  starry  light, 
r     \*  And  with  the  murmured  name  of  "God," 

He  watched  the  camp  that  night. 

The  future  opened  unto  him 
Its  grand  and  awful  scroll; 


v/  Manassas  and  the  Valley  march 


Came  heaving  o'er  his  soul; 
Richmond  and  Sharpsburg  thundered  by 

And  that  terrific  fight 
Which,  to  the  angel  host,  gave  him 

Who  watched  the  camp  that  night. 

We  grieve  for  him  who  died  for  us, 

With  one  resistless  moan, 
As  up  the  Valley  of  the  Lord 

He  marches  to  the  throne. 
He  kept  the  faith  of  men  and  saints, 

Sublime  and  pure  and  bright — 
He  sleeps — and  all  is  well  with  him 

Who  watched  the  camp  that  night. 

Soldiers  !  the  midnight  darkness  now 

Is  shrouding  o'er  our  fate; 
The  vengeful  Goths  pollute  our  halls 

With  fire,  and  lust  and  hate; 
Be  strong,  be  valiant,  be  assured — 

Strike  home  for  Heaven  and  Right — 
The  soul  of  Jackson  is  abroad, 

And  guards  the  camp  to-night. 


CULLINGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY.  69 


STONEWALL   JACKSON. 

[From  John  Esten  Cook's  New  Book.] 

Jackson  at  Kernstown. 

At  Kernstown,  when  a  portion  of  his  line  gave  back  before 
the  overwhelming  numbers  assailing  it,  he  took  his  stand 
close  to  the  enemy,  amid  a  storm  of  bullets,  caller!  to  a  drum 
mer  boy,  and,  placing  his  hand  firmly  upon  the  boy's  shoulder, 
said  in  his  brief,  curt  tone:  "  Beat  the  Rally."  The  rally  was 
beaten,  Jackson  remained  by  the  drummer's  side,  holding  him 
to  his  work  with  the  inexorable  hand  upon  the  shoulder,  the 
rally  continued  to  roll  and  the  line  was  speedily  reformed. 

His  Parting  with  the  Old  Stonewall    Brigade. 

After  the  first  battle  of  Manassas,  when  General  Jackson  was 
ordered  to  the  Valley,  his  old  brigade  was  left  behind  with  the 
Army  of  Northern  Virginia.  On  the  4th  of  October  he  took 
leave  of  it.  The  historian  says: 

On  that  day  Jackson  took  leave  of  his  old  "  First  Brigade." 
The  officers  and  men  were  drawn  up  as  though  in  line  of  bat 
tle,  and  their  commander  appeared  in  front,  as  he  had  so  often 
appeared  before  them  when  about  to  give  the  order  for  a 
charge  upon  the  enemy.  But  now  no  enthusiasm,  no  cheers 
awaited  him.  All  knew  for  what  purpose  he  came,  and  the 
sorrow  which  filled  every  heart  betrayed  itself  in  the  deep 
silence  which  greeted  his  approach.  Not  a  souna  along  the 
line,  not  a  hand  raised  in  greeting,  not  a  murmur  even  going  to 
show  that  they  recognized  their  beloved  captain.  The  bronze 
faces  were  full  of  the  deepest  dejection,  and  the  stern  fighters 
of  the  old  brigade  were  like  children  about  to  be  separated 
from  their  father.  Jackson  approached,  and  mastering  his 
emotion  by  an  effort,  said,  in  the  short,  abrupt  tones  with 
which  all  were  so  familiar: 

"  I  am  not  here  to  make  a  speech,  but  simply  to  say  fare 
well.  I  first  met  you  at  Harper's  Ferry  at  the  commencement 
of  the  war,  and  I  cannot  take  leave  of  you  without  giving  ex 
pression  to  my  admiration  of  your  conduct  from  that  day  to 
this — whether  on  the  march,  the  bivouac,  the  tented  field,  or 
on  the  bloody  plains  of  Manassas,  where  you  gained  the  well- 
deserved  reputation  of  having  decided  the  fate  of  battle. 
Throughout  the  broad  extent  of  country  over  which  you 
marched,  by  your  respect  for  the  rights  and  property  of  citi 
zens,  you  have  shown  that  you  were  soldiers,  not  only  to  de 
fend,  but  able  and  willing  both  to  defend  and  protect.  You 
have  already  gained  a  brilliant  and  deservedly  high  reputation 
throughout  the  army,  and  I  trust  in  the  future,  by  your  deeds 


70  CULLING S  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY. 


in  the  field,  and  by  the  assistance  of  kind  Providence,  you  will 
gain  more  victories  and  add  additional  lustre  to  the  reputation 
you  now  enjoy.  I  shall  look  with  great  anxiety  to  your  future 
movements,  and  I  trust  whenever  I  shall  hear  of  the  First 
Brigade  on  the  field  of  battle  it  will  be  of  still  nobler  deeds 
achieved  and  higher  reputation  won." 

Having  uttered  these  words  Jackson  paused  for  an  instant 
and  his  eye  passed  slowly  along  the  line,  as  though  he  wished 
thus  to  bid  farewell  individually  to  every  old  familiar  face,  so 
often  seen  in  the  heat  of  battle,  and  so  dear  to  him.  The 
thoughts  which  crowded  upon  him  seemed  more  than  he  could 
bear — he  could  not  leave  them  with  such  formal  words 
only — and  the  iron  lip  which  had  never  trembled  in  the  hour 
of  deadliest  peril,  now  quivered.  Mastered  by  an  uncontroll 
able  impulse,  the  great  soldier  rose  in  his  stirrups,  threw  the 
reins  on  the  neck  of  his  horse  with  an  emphasis  which  sent  a 
thrill  through  every  heart,  and  extending  his  arm,  added  in 
tones  of  the  deepest  feeling: 

"  In  the  army  of  the  Shenandoah  you  were  the  First  Bri 
gade  !  In  the  army  of  the  Potomac  you  were  the  First  Bri 
gade  !  In  the  second  corps  of  the  army  you  are  the  First  Bri 
gade  !  You  are  the  First  Brigade  in  the  affections  of  your 
General,  and  I  hope  by  your  future  deeds  and  bearing  you  will 
be  handed  down  to  posterity  as  the  First  Brigade.  Farewell." 

As  these  words  echoed  in  their  ears,  and  Jackson  turned  to 
leave  them,  the  long  pent-up  feeling  burst  forth.  Three  pro 
longed  and  deafening  cheers  rolled  along  the  line  of  the  old 
brigade,  and  no  sooner  had  they  died  away  than  they  were  re 
newed,  and  again  renewed.  The  calm  face  of  the  great  leader 
flushed  as  he  listened  to  the  sound,  but  he  did  not  speak. 
Waving  his  hand  in  token  of  farewell  he  galloped  away,  and 
the  old  brigade,  deprived  of  its  beloved  chief,  returned  sorrow 
fully  to  camp. 


POST   BELLUM    RICHES. 

An  old  lady  of  Colonial  descent  was  robbed  by  process  of 
war — well,  say,  of  her  fine  carriage  and  horses,  and  was 
forced  to  resort  to  a  cart  (kyart)  and  mule  to  go  to  church. 
One  of  her  more  prosperous  neighbors,  who  had  quickly  ac 
cepted  the  new  condition,  and  made  some  money,  rolled  by 
in  a  new  rig  drawn  by  a  fine  horse.  The  old  lady  turned  to 
her  daughter  by  her  side,  whom  she  fancied  would  object  to 
the  dust,  saying  with  a  satisfied  air:  "  Never  mind,  dear,  let 
them  pass.  The  blood  is  in  the  cart." 


CULLINGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERA  CY.  71 


OUR  STONEWALL'S  GRAVE. 

Stranger,  pause  at  this  mound  of  clay, 
See,  it  is  fresh,  and  was  made  to-day; 
'Neath  it  a  hero's  remains  now  rest, 
Who  by  his  country  will  ever  be  blessed; 
Here,  softly  he  sleeps,  while  a  nation  weeps 
O'er  the  early  grave  of  our  Jackson  brave. 

Strong  was  his  arm  for  his  country's  right, 
Bold  was  his  heart  in  the  midst  of  the  fight, 
Ever  the  first  and  the  last  on  the  field, 
He  knew  how  to  conquer,  but  not  how  to  yield, 
Till  the  angel  of  death  obstructed  his  path, 
And  called  him  away  from  the  field  of  the  fray. 

Yet,  though  never  again  he'll  lead 

Armies,  who  count  it  an  ample  meed 

Once  to  have  been  of  his  tried  command, 

Still  he  shall  live  through  our  Southern  land, 

For  his  glorious  name  on  the  pillar  of  fame 

That  will  rise  in  our  land,  still  the  highest  shall  stand. 

And,  when  ages  have  passed  away, 
Lovers  of  freedom,  who  come  this  way, 
Ever  will  pause  at  this  humble  mound, 
Saying  to  those  who  are  grouping  around, 
There  softly  he  sleeps  whom  a  nation  weeps, 
Stonewall,  the  brave,  in  his  early  grave." 

By  ESPERANZA. 
July  4th,  1863. 


TRIBUTE    TO    GENERAL   T.   ASHBY. 

To  the  brave  all  homage  render, 

Weep,  ye  skies  of  June; 
With  a  radiance  pure  and  tender, 

Shine,  oh  saddened  moon  ! 
Dead  upon  the  field  of  glory, 
Hero  fit  for  song  and  story, 

Lies  our  bold  dragoon. 

Well  they  learned  whose  hands  have  slain  him, 

Braver,  knightlier  foe 
Never  fought  with  Moor  nor  Paynim — 

Rode  at  Templesto; 
With  a  mien  how  high  and  joyous, 
'Gainst  the  hordes  that  would  destroy  us, 

Went  he  forth,  we  know. 

Never  more,  alas,  shall  sabre 

Gleam  around  his  crest; 
Fought  his  fight,  fulfilled  his  labor, 

Stilled  his  manly  breast; 
All  unheard,  sweet  nature's  cadence, 
Trump  of  fame  and  voice  of  maidens; 

Now  he  takes  his  rest. 


72  CULLINGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY. 

Earth,  that  all  too  soon  hath  bound  him, 

Gently  wrap  his  clay; 
Linger  lovingly  around  him, 

Light  of  dying  day. 
Softly  fall  the  summer  showers, 
Birds  and  bees  among  the  flowers 

Make  the  gloom  seem  gay. 

There,  throughout  the  coming  ages, 

When  his  sword  is  rust, 
And  his  deeds  in  classic  pages, 

Mindful  of  her  trust, 
Shall  Virginia,  bending  lowly, 
Still  a  ceaseless  vigil  holy, 

Keep  above  his  dust. 

JOHN  R.  THOMPSON. 


MOSBY  AND  HIS  MEN. 

When  the  historic  muse  shall  seek 

For  themes  of  future  song, 
We'll  point  to  those  who  for  the  right 

Fought  nobly  'gainst  the  wrong. 
And  'mongst  the  foremost  on  the  list, 

For  whom  we'll  ask  a  strain, 
While  we  with  pride  their  deeds  recount, 

Is  Mosby  and  his  men. 

No  knightlier  forms  e'er  steeds  bestrode, 

Or  swept  a  battlefield; 
And  not  a  man  but  left  his  land 

A  bright,  untarnished  shield. 
It  was  the  boast  of  friend  and  foe, 

Where'er  that  troop  had  been, 
"The  weak  were  shielded  from  the  strong 

By  Mosby  and  his  men." 

Amid  the  battle's  smoke  and  din 

Their  colors  used  to  wave; 
Up  to  the  cannon's  mouth  they  marched, 

The  "bravest  of  the  brave." 
Into  the  flames  of  death  they  rode, 

And  never  drew  a  rein; 
Not  they,  for  that  was  never  known 

Of  Mosby  and  his  men. 

And  this  not  on  a  single  field, 

But  day  by  day  for  years; 
Where'er  the  trembling,  waning  light 

Of  liberty  appears. 
From  Richmond  'round  to  Gettysburg 

Their  war-trail  may  be  seen; 
A  hundred  fields  are  rife  with  tales 

Of  Mosby  and  his  men. 


CULLINGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY.          73 

Whene'er  they  started  on  a  charge 

No  backward  step  they  knew, 
'Till  lightning-like  they'd  fiercely  cut 

The  foeman  through  and  through. 
And  this  the  grand  "old  chieftain"  knew, 

And  turning  now  and  then, 
Some  word  of  praise  he'd  let  escape 

For  Mosby  and  his  men. 

Adown  the  ages  of  the  world, 

With  Ney  and  such  as  he, 
These  bold  dragoons  shall  surely  reap 

An  immortality. 
For  high  chivalric  deeds  are  worth 

The  Muses'  noblest  strain, 
Then  shall  the  wine  pour  forth  a  song 

To  Mosby  and  his  men. 
Selma,  Ala.,  October  31,  1866.  PHOENIX. 


MORGAN'S   WAR    SONG. 

By  GENERAL  BASIL  DUKE,  OF  KENTUCKY. 
Air — A  combination  of  the  "  Marseillaise  "  and  the  "Old  Gran 
ite  State." 

Ye  sons  of  the  South,  take  your  weapons  in  hand, 
For  the  foot  of  the  foe  has  insulted  your  land. 
Sound  !  sound  the  loud  alarm  ! 
Arise  !  arise  and  arm  ! 

Let  the  hand  of  each  freeman  grasp  the  sword  to  maintain 
Those  rights  which,  once  lost,  he  can  never  regain. 

Chorus — Gather  fast  'neath  our  flag, 

For  'tis  God's  own  decree 
That  it's  folds  shall  still  float 
O'er  a  land  that  is  free. 

See  ye  not  those  dark  clouds  which  now  threaten  the  sky  ? 
Hear  ye  not  that  stern  thunder  now  bursting  so  nigh  ? 

Shout  !  shout  your  battle  cry  ! 

Win  !  win  this  fight  or  die  ! 

What  our  fathers  achieved  our  own  valor  can  keep, 
And  we'll  save  our  fair  land  or  we'll  sleep  our  last  sleep. 

On  our  hearts  and  our  arms  and  our  God  we  rely, 
And  a  nation  shall  rise  or  a  people  shall  die. 

Form  !  form  the  serried  line  ! 

Advance  our  proud  ensign  ! 
To  your  country  devote  every  life  that  she  gave, 
Let  the  land  they  invade  give  their  army  its  grave. 

Though  their  plunder-paid  hordes  come  to  ravage  our  land, 
Give  our  fields  to  the  spoiler,  our  homes  to  the  brand, 

Our  souls  are  all  aglow 

To  face  the  hireling  foe, 

Give  the  robbers  to  know  that  we  never  will  yield 
While  the  arm  of  a  Southron  a  weapon  can  wield. 


74  CULLING S  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY. 

From  our  far  Southern  shore  now  arises  a  prayer, 
While  the  cry  of  our  women  fills  with  anguish  the  air. 

Oh  !  list  that  pleading  voice; 

Each  youth  now  make  his  choice; 
Now  tamely  submit  like  a  coward  or  slave, 
Or  rise  and  resist  like  the  free  and  the  brave. 

Kentucky  !  Kentucky  !  can  you  sufter  the  sight 
Of  your  sisters  insulted,  your  friends  in  the  fight  ? 

Awake  !  be  free  again  ! 

Oh  !  break  the  tyrant's  chain  ! 

Let  each  hand  seize  the  sword  it  drew  for  the  right, 
From  the  homes  of  your  fathers  drive  the  dastard  in  flight. 


THE  VOLUNTEERS  TO  THE  "MELISH." 

(By  Wm.  C.  Estres.) 

Come  forth  ye  gallant  heroes, 

Rub  up  each  rusty  gun, 
And  face  these  hireling  Yankees, 

Who  live  by  tap  of  drum. 
We  Volunteers  are  wearied 

By  a  twelve-month's  "sojourn," 
We  want  to  rest  a  little 

And  then  we'll  fight  again. 

We've  won  some  five  pitched  battles, 

But  will  yield  you  one  "Polish," 
And  if  you  want  some  glory 

Why  pitch  in  now  "Melish." 
Don't  refuse  to  leave  your  spouses — 

Our  own  are  just  as  dear, 
Each  lonely  little  woman 

Longs  for  her  own  Volunteer. 

Don't  mind  your  sobbing  sweethearts, 

For  though  'tis  hard  to  part, 
We'll  volunteer  to  chase  'em 

And  console  each  troubled  heart. 
For  the  sake  of  old  Virginia 

Come  and  fight!  that's  if  you  can — 
And  let  your  prattling  babies 

Know  their  daddy  was  a  man. 

For  we've  fought  and  we  have  struggled, 

And  no  furloughs — nary  one — 
We  need  a  little  resting 

And  so  we're  coming  home. 
Then  forward,  bold  Militia! 

If  your  coming,  come  along, 
Or  by  the  gods  we'll  force  you 

To  your  duty — right  or  wrong. 

(Fun  was  poked  at  the  Militia,  but  they  did  their  duty  nobly 
when  the  necessity  arose.) 


CULLINGS  FROM:  THE  CONFEDERACY.       75 


THE  BATTLE  OF  ST.  PAUL'S  (N.  O.) 

Come  boys,  and  listen  while  I  sing 

The  greatest  fight  yet  fought — 
Was  when  the  hated  Yankee 

A  real  Tartar  caught. 
'Twas  not  the  first  Manassas,    . 

Won  by  our  Beauregard, 
Nor  Perryville,  nor  Belmont, 

Though  Polk  then  hit  him  hard; 
Nor  was  it  famous  Shiloh, 

Wliere  Sydney  Johnston  fell — 
No,  these  were  mighty  battles, 

But  a  greater  I  will  tell. 

'Twas  fought  on  Sunday  morning, 

Within  the  Church's  walls, 
And  shall  be  known  in  history 

As  the  "Battle  of  St.  Paul's." 
The  Yankee  Strong  commanded 

For  Butler,  the  "abhorred," 
And  the  Reverend  Mr.  Goodrich 

Bore  the  Banner  of  the  Lord. 
The  bell  had  ceased  its  tolling, 

The  service  nearly  done. 
The  Psalms  and  Lessons  over, 

The  Lord's  Prayer  just  begun; 
When  as  the  Priest  and  people 

Said  "Hallowed  be  Thy  name," 
A  voice  in  tones  of  thunder 

His  order  did  proclaim; 
As  this  house  is  devoted 

To  Great  Jehovah's  praise, 
And  no  prayer  for  Abra'm  Lincoln 

Within  its  walls  you  raise, 
Therefore  of  rank  Secession 

It  is  an  impious  nest, 
And  I  stop  all  further  service, 

And  the  clergyman  arrest; 
And  in  the  name  of  Butler, 

I  order  furthermore, 
That  this  assembly  scatter 

And  the  Sexton  close  the  door." 
Up  rose  the  congregation; 

We  men  were  all  away, 
And  our  wives  and  little  children 

Alone  remained  to  pray. 
But  when  has  Southern  woman 

Before  a  Yankee  quailed? 
And  these  with  tongues  undaunted 

That  Lincolnite  assailed. 
In  vain  he  called  his  soldiers — 

Their  darts  around  him  flew, 
And  the  Strong  man  then  discovered 

What  a  woman's  tongue  can  do. 


76          CULLING S  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY. 

Some  cried,  "We  knew  that  Butler 

On  babes  and  woman  warred, 
But  we  did  not  think  to  find  him 

In  the  Temple  of  the  Lord." 
Some  pressed  around  their  pastor, 

Some  on  the  villain  gazed, 
Who  against  the  Lord's  annointed 

His  dastard  arm  had  raised. 
Some  said  "E'en  to  a  Yankee 

We  would  not  do  such  wrong 
As  to  mistake  another 

For  the  gallant  Major  Strong: 
So  we'll  look  upon  the  hero 

'Till  his  face  we  cannot  doubt," 
"While  a  stout  old  lady  shouted, 

"Do  some  one  kick  him  out." 

"Don't  touch  him,"  cried  another, 

He  is  worthy  of  his  Ruler, 
For  he  fights  with  women  braver 

Than  he  fought  at  Ponchatoula. 
But  when  the  storm  raged  fiercest, 

And  hearts  were  all  aflame, 
Like  oil  on  troubled  waters, 

The  voice  of  blessing  came — 
For  though  with  angry  gestures 

The  Yankee  bid  him  cease, 
The  Priest,  with  hands  uplifted, 

Bade  his  people:  "Go  in  peace," 
And  called  down  Heavenly  blessings 

Upon  the  surging  crowd, 
While  the  men  their  teeth  were  clenching, 

And  the  women  sobbing  loud. 

And  then  with  mien  undaunted, 

He  passed  along  the  aisle, 
The  gallant  Yankee  hero 

Behind  him  all  the  while. 
"You  better  bring  a  gunboat, 

For  that's  your  winning  card," 
Said  a  haughty  little  beauty, 

As  the  Strong  man  called  a  guard. 
"'Tis  only  'neath  their  shelter 

You  Yankees  ever  fight," 
Cried  another  spunky  woman, 

Who  stood  upon  his  right. 

But  the  Major  thought  a  cannon 

(If  his  men  could  not  succeed 
In  clearing  off  the  sidewalk), 

Would  be  all  that  he  should  need. 
And,  I  guess,  his  light  artillery 

Gainst  Christ  Church  he  will  range, 
When  his  "  base  of  operations  " 

Next  Sunday  he  shall  change. 


CULLINGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY.          77 

'Twas  thus  the  tyrant  Butler, 

'Mid  women's  sobs  and  tears, 
Seized  a  priest  before  the  altar 

He  had  served  for  twenty  years. 
We  know  in  darkest  ages, 

A  church  was  holy  ground, 
Where  from  the  hand  of  tyrants 

A  refuge  might  be  found; 
And  from  the  meanest  soldier 

To  the  highest  in  the  land, 
None  dared  to  touch  the  fugitive 

Who  should  within  it  stand. 

'Twas  left  the  "  Beastly  Butler  " 

To  violate  its  walls, 
And  to  be  known  in  future 

As  the  victor  of  St.  Paul's. 
He  has  called  our  wives  "  she  adders," 

And  he  shall  feel  their  sting, 
For  the  voice  of  outraged  woman 
Through  every  land  shall  ring. 
He  shall  stand  with  Austrian  Haynan 

Upon  the  rolls  of  fame, 
And  bear  to  latest  ages 

A  base,  dishonored  name. 
Conquered  Territory  of  Louisiana. 
New  Orleans,  August  17,  1866. 

The  above  is  a  description  of  one  of  the  victories  of  the 
"  Beast,"  achieved  on  Sunday,  October  12,  1862,  and  a  copy 
kindly  sent  to  me  by  a  member  of  the  Washington  Artillery. 


YANKEE   OFFICER   CAPTURED    BY   VIRGINIA   GIRLS. 

"  Ora,"  the  correspondent  of  the  Mobile  Tribune,  relates  the 
following  incident  in  a  letter  from  Richmond: 

"  I  must  conclude  this  already  too  long  letter  by  relating 
the  following  amusing  incident,  which  occurred  at  Freder- 
icksburg,  on  the  late  retreat  of  the  Yankees  from  that  city. 
We  were  driving  Sedgwick's  infidels  across  Bank's  Ford,  when 
a  Yankee  officer  was  seen  making  his  way  through  the  streets 
of  Fredericksburg,  where  we  had  no  troops  at  the  time,  in  or 
der  to  gain  the  opposite  side  of  the  river.  A  number  of  ladies 
standing  on  a  porch  at  the  time,  saw  the  runaway  and  cried 
out  "stop  him  !  stop  him  !"  when  Miss  Phillippa  Barbour,  a 
niece  of  Colonel  Phil  Barbour,  of  Virginia,  with  a  number  of 
other  ladies  gave  chase,  and  ran  the  Yankee  officer  nearly 
down,  who,  convulsed  with  laughter  at  the  idea  of  being  pur 
sued  by  ladies,  became  nearly  exhausted,  and  gave  up  on  be 
ing  hemmed  in  at  the  corner  of  a  garden  fence.  The  ladies 
took  him  prisoner  and  locked  him  up  in  a  room  until  our  troops 
again  entered  the  city." 


78  CULLING S  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY. 

BATTLE   OF   NINTH    OF  JUNE,   1864. 

The  following  poem  on  the  battle  of  the  ninth  of  June,  1864, 
at  Rives'  Farm,  on  the  Jerusalem  Plank  Road,  Prince  George 
County,  Va.,  was  written  by  the  late  Colonel  Fletcher  H.  Ar 
cher,  in  the  year  1871,  and  published  in  the  Petersburg  Index 
on  the  9th  of  June,  1871.  It  was  subsequently  revised  and  re- 
published  in  the  Petersburg  Appeal  of  June,  1873: 

Advancing  time  on  tireless  wings, 
Each  hour  its  subtle  changes  brings; 
Sweeps  back  the  past,  and  o'er  it  all 
Oblivion's  drapery  lets  fall. 

The  earth  returns  upon  its  track; 
The  stars,  revolving,  hasten  back; 
The  viewless  winds  in  cycles  blow; 
The  waters  ebb,  the  waters  flow. 
But  time  once  past  returns  no  more 
To  scan  its  works  or  do  them  o'er. 

As  streams  that  to  the  ocean  run, 

Swiftly  commingle  into  one, 

Or  desert  sands  by  tempest  tost, 

In  wide-spreading  wastes  are  lost, 

Or  varied  colors  all  unite 

In  undistinguishable  white, 

So  time's  events  together  blend, 

And  on  from  age  to  age  extend, 

'Till  in  one  vast,  unfathomed  sea, 

Engulfed  is  their  identity. 

A  passing  act  may  leave  its  shade 
Briefly  enfixed,  by  record  made, 
Or  now  and  then  is  dimly  seen 
By  watchful  eye,  the  distant  sheen, 
Of  some  o'erleaping  deed  that  rears 
Its  head  above  the  tide  of  years, 
But  soon  it  fades  with  scarce  a  tract 
To  mark  its  course  or  point  its  place. 

Time's  current,  in  its  onward  way, 
Roll  back  its  tide,  and  touch  with  life 
The  mem'ries  of  that  day  of  strife, 
When  gallant  youths  and  grey-haired  sires, 
Hard  by  their  altars  and  their  fires, 
.Stemmed  the  fierce  conflict's  surging  flood, 
Till  earth  was  crimsoned  with  their  blood. 

The  story  I  may  feebly  tell, 
How  fought  those  patriots  and  bow  fell; 
May  sketch  with  mingled  shade  and  light, 
Faint  outlines  of  the  gory  fight: 
Snatch  from  the  swiftly  gathering  maze, 
Ere  yet  they  disappear,  some  rays 


CULLING S  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY.          79 

With  which  to  gild  those  deeds  that  seem 
Like  visions  of  a  fevered  dream; 
But  falters  on  my  tongue  the  strain, 
As  I  rehearse  it  o'er  again. 

The  sun  at  eve  had  sunk  to  rest 
Undimmed  beyond  the  glowing  west; 
The  twilight  hour  with  mystic  tread, 
Mid  changing  hues  its  course  had  sped, 
The  canopy  of  night  unfurled 
In  solemn  darkness  o'er  the  world, 
Had  brought  to  view  full  manv  a  star, 
Which  gleamed  in  brightness  from  afar. 

The  tattoo  beat  the  roll  call  o'er 
The  soldier  in  his  tent  secure, 
As  sweetly  slept  as  though  the  morrow 
Contained  for  him  no  cup  of  sorrow. 
The  sentry  on  his  quiet  round, 
Grown  listless  at  the  peace  profound, 
Half-dreaming  trod  his  weary  way, 
Nor  heeded  scarce  the  approach  of  day. 

Now  darkness  flies,  the  early  dawn 
Breaks  gently  into  opening  morn, 
The  morning  speeds,  and  o'er  the  sky 
The  golden  raylets  shoot  on  high; 
The  raylets  spread  till  through  the  east 
The  sun  mounts  up  with  flaming  crest; 
And  dazzling  floods  of  glorious  light 
Dispel  the  lingering  shades  of  night. 

Sweet,  gentle  morn,  fair  ninth  of  June, 
None  guessed  how  full  of  woe  thy  noon; 
None  thought  that  e'er  thine  hours  had  waned, 
The  earth  with  life-blood  would  be  stained, 
The  blood  of  freemen  drawn  by  those 
Who  should  have  been  their  friends,  not  foes; 
None  dreamed  that  many  a  widowed  heart 
With  pangs  of  untold  grief  would  smart; 
And  orphans  countless  tears  would  shed 
In  sorrow  for  their  fathers  dead. 

The  reveille  from  drum  and  fife 
Had  long  awoke  the  camp  to  life, 
The  frugal  meal  prepared  and  eat, 
The  old  relieved,  the  new  guard  set, 
Due  orders  issued  and  obeyed, 
Left  naught  for  those  from  duty  freed, 
Save  to  consult  each  man  his  will, 
Till  tapped  the  morning  drum  for  drill. 

Dispersed  in  varied  forms  around, 
In  groups,  or  singly,  o'er  the  ground, 
Disporting  some,  and  some  employed 
In  grave  pursuits,  each  man  enjoyed 


80  CULLING S  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY. 


As  best  he  might  the  time  that  passed, 
Nor  counted  that  'twould  be  his  last. 

The  swift  winged  moments  onward  fly, 
The  sun  ascends  the  morning  sky, 
Till  lessening  shades  from  shrub  and  pine 
Proclaim  the  approaching  hour  of  nine; 
When  lo,  emerging  from  the  wood, 
Which  to  the  front  and  northward  stood, 
Beyond  the  camp  and  opening  waste 
A  horseman  winds  the  path  in  haste, 
Straight  for  headquarters  shapes  his  way, 
Scarce  stops  for  aught,  nor  brooks  delay, 
Till  whom  he  seeks  before  him  stands, 
Then  drops  the  bridle  from  his  hands, 
Forth  from  his  breast  a  paper  draws, 
Speaks  briefly  to  explain  the  cause, 
Turns,  and  is  gone  the  way  he  came, 
Nor  lingers  e'en  to  tell  his  name. 

The  paper  ope'd,  its  contents  read, 
The  foe  is  marching  on,  it  said — 
Warns  to  be  ready;  and  at  large 
Leaves  the  commander  to  his  charge; 
Enough;  now  adjutant  attend; 
Order  the  roll  and  quickly  send 
Bach  captain  word  his  men  to  form 
Prepared  to  meet  the  coming  storm. 
As  when  the  midnight  tocsin  sounds 
Forth  from  his  couch  the  fireman  bounds 
Strains  every  nerve  and  speeds  along 
Regardless  of  the  gathering  throng; 
Or  when  abroad  in  search  of  food 
With  which  to  feed  her  callow  brood 
The  eagle  views  with  piercing  eye 
The  low'ring  tempest  drawing  nigh 
All  else  forgets  and  cleaves  the  air 
To  reach  the  objects  of  her  care. 
So  when  upon  the  drummer's  ear 
The  order  falls  distinct  and  clear 
Unto  his  post  he  promptly  springs 
His  trappings  o'er  his  shoulder  flings 
Sends  forth  a  deep  unceasing  roll 
Through  camp  and  field  'till  ev'ry  soul 
Hath  caught  the  sound  and  near  or  far 
Heeds  the  grim  summons  to  prepare 
Hastes  to  equip  and  take  his  stand 
In  line  obedient  to  command. 

Comes  Wolff  with  band  as  firm  and  true 
As  ever  sword  or  trigger  drew, 
Come  Rogers  and  his  men  with  tread 
As  steady  as  to  banquet  spread; 
Come  Jarvis  and  his  faithful  son; 
Alfriend  and  Bott;  and  with  each  one 
Come  those  determined  to  defend 
Their  homes  and  loved  ones  to  the  end. 


CULLINGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY.         81 

No  swag'ring  gait,  no  braggart's  mien 
Among  those  sturdy  men  is  seen, 
Nor  though  in  numbers  small,  do  they 
Aught  of  the  coward's  fear  betray. 
But  steady,  calm  and  firm  of  heart, 
Resolves  each  man  to  do  his  part; 
Nor  turn  him  from  his  sacred  trust 
'Till  many  a  foe  had  bit  the  dust. 

Now  to  the  front  repairs  the  chief — 
Surveys  his  force,  gives  counsel  brief, 
Extends  to  all  a  word  of  cheer, 
Bids  each  remember  those  most  dear, 
Admonishes  to  bravely  fight 
For  friends,  for  kindred  and  the  right, 
And  never  yield  to  foeman's  tread 
Except  across  their  bodies  dead. 

This  done,  along  the  torturous  line, 

Where  crude,  unfinished  works  define, 

More  solid  means  of  future  strength 

When  filled  by  thousands  through  its  length, 

Each  captain  with  his  little  band 

Extends  as  far  on  either  hand — 

Obedient  to  his  chieftain's  word — 

As  meagre  numbers  will  afford. 

A  fence  and  wagon  furnish  aid 

Which  willing  hands  with  ready  speed 

Dispose  at  every  point  of  need. 

But  stretching  far  to  right  and  left 

The  line  attenuate  bereft 

Of  all  defense  leaves  entrance  wide 

To  flank  and  rear  on  either  side. 

A  few  in  skirmish  line  deployed 

Along  the  front,  less  to  avoid 

Surprise  from  the  approaching  foe 

Than  due  and  proper  care  to  show 

Complete,  as  far  as  human  power 

The  opened  road  to  barricade 

Affords,  arrangements  for  the  hour, 

And  naught  is  left  to  do  but  wait, 

And  trust  in  Him  who  rules  all  fate. 

To  wait!   ah  yes;   but  who  can  tell, 
Save  those  who  know  and  feel  it  well, 
What  'tis  to  wait  when  dangers  nigh 
May  doom  the  waiting  souls  to  die 
Or  cast  in  loathsome  prison,  bear 
Disease  and  pain  with  none  to  care 
Save  distant  ones  at  home  who  mourn 
The  loved  ones  from  their  bosoms  torn 
To  wait!  Ah  yes;  'tis  well  enough 
For  those  not  made  of  sterner  stuff 
To  speak  of  waiting,  when  perchance, 
Delays  the  opening  of  the  dance 
Or  joys  expected  fail  to  spring 
From  pleasure's  shrine  on  giddy  wing. 


82          CULLINGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY. 

Or  e'en  for  tortured  hearts  compelled 

To  wait  for  solid  good  withheld, 

But  let  me  ne'er  behold  again 

A  little  band  of  six  score  men 

Doomed  thus  to  wait  while  o'er  the  heads 

In  blackening  folds  the  war-cloud  spread, 

'Till  numbers  ten-fold  more  than  they 

In  battle's  dark  and  dread  array 

Stand  ready  at  the  slightest  breath 

To  strike  them  with  the  shafts  of  death. 

Now,  Archer,  thou  hast  work  to  do 
As  yonder  column  heaves  in  view, 
Quick,  Johnson,  let  thine  eye  be  cast 
Down  the  whole  line  to  see  all  fast, 
Be  steady  men  behold  they  dash 
Along  the  road  with  thundering  crash; 
Now;  hold,  not  yet;  reserve  your  fire; 
Be  quiet  'till  they  come  still  nigher. 
Ha!  let  them  have  it!  Hurl  them  back, 
Let  fall  yon  leader  in  his  track; 
Fight  on;  fight  on;  they  turn;  they  fly; 
Brave  freemen  send  your  shouts  on  high. 

As  turns  the  panther  from  his  prey 
When  dangers  thicken  in  the  way, 
Or  flees  the  hawk  from  fowler's  aim, 
When  baffled  in  pursuit  of  game. 
Or  scapes  the  wolf  from  fold  at  dark 
When  warned  by  faithful  watch-dog  bark, 
So  turns  the  foeman  in  his  path 
Before  the  Southron's  kindling  wrath. 

Meantime  the  conflict  heard  aloof 
Brings  succor  small  on  rapid  hoof, 
A  single  gun;  a  squad  of  men, 
With  Colston  at  their  head,  come  in, 
Nor  sooner  than  at  utmost  need, 
Arrives  assistance  though  with  speed. 

For,  gathering  now  with  all  their  strength, 

Extending  far  their  line  in  length, 

The  foe  prepare  on  every  hand 

To  sweep  from  earth  the  patriot  band. 

But  not  by  numbers  to  be  driven, 

Till  by  the  shock  of  battle  riven. 

These  scan  the  foe  with  steady  eye, 

Resolved  that  many  yet  shall  die, 

Ere  to  their  homes  the  way  they  yield, 

Or  turn  their  backs  upon  the  field. 

A  lunette  on  the  left  is  manned 
By  Scott,  with  a  devoted  band. 
The  gun  in  battery  on  the  right, 
Where  crowds  a  heavy  force  in  sight; 


CULLINGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY. 

And  other  needful  changes  made, 
Consumes  brief  time,  when  overhead 
Exploding  shells,  with  smoke  and  flame, 
Reopening  of  the  fight  proclaim. 

Oh,  who  can  tell  in  this  dark  hour, 
What  dangers  o'er  those  patriots  lower, 
In  numbers  few,  with  naught  to  cheer, 
Or  give  them  hope  of  succor  near, 
But  left  in  weakness  to  oppose 
A  host  of  unrelenting  foes 
Advancing  stealthily  and  slow, 
Made  cautious  by  their  late  overthrow, 
Seeking  some  vantage  to  secure, 
By  which  to  make  their  vctory  sure. 

Like  the  famed  serpent  widely  known 
In  tropic  regions,  where,  alone, 
He  lurks  beneath  the  greenwood's  shade, 
Or  through  the  unfrequented  glade, 
Glides  silently  along  his  trail, 
Till  catching  on  the  passing  gale, 
The  footfall  of  some  hapless  beast, 
On  which  he  hopes  perchance  to  feast. 
Then  all  aglow,  each  wakened  sense, 
And  burning  with  desire  intense, 
He  forward  springs  till  in  his  folds 
His  quivering  victim  fast  he  holds. 

But  issues  greater  e'en  than  life 

Now  hang  upon  the  battle's  strife; 

Yon  city  to  be  guarded  lies  — 

.And  loved  ones  with  their  pleading  eyes  — 

In  jeopardy  the  glorious  cause, 

Of  Southron's  rights  to  Southron's  laws, 

What  more  can  nerve  the  human  heart, 

What  more  can  courage  true  impart; 

Stand,  freemen,  stand,  though  earth  be  stained 

With  blood  for  every  moment  gained. 

No  need  to  bid  those  freemen  stand, 
When  issues  such  as  these  command; 
For  as  the  oak  in  summer's  storm 
Unbending  bears  its  sturdy  form, 
Or  pine  uplifts  its  stately  head, 
Till  o'er  the  earth  its  leaves  are  spread, 
When  pours  the  hail  from  murky  cloud, 
'Mid  lightnings  keen  and  thunders  loud, 
So  they  with  firm  unbated  breath, 
Prepare  to  meet  the  storm  of  death. 


fatally  this  storm  shall  rage, 
As  center,  right  and  left  engage, 
The  rising  smoke,  the  lurid  flash; 
Ihe  deadly  aim;  the  rifles  crash; 
The  belching  gun;  the  leaden  hail; 
The  shrieking  shell's  unearthly  wail; 


84  CULL  INGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY. 

The  hurrying  tread;  the  hasty  shout; 
The  groan;  the  life-blood  gushing  out — 
Enough,  enough,  forbear  my  pen, 
To  bring  to  mind  those  scenes  again. 

Oh,  precious  moments  speeding  now, 
Speed  on,  speed  on,  and  e'er  shall  bow 
Those  struggling  men  before  the  blast, 
Let  time  be  gained  till  shield  be  cast 
Around  the  homes,  the  loved  in  need, 
And  the  great  cause  for  which  they  bleed. 

Behold  at  length  their  work  is  o'er; 
They've  done  their  best — can  do  no  more; 
Scathed,  panting,  helpless,  turn  away, 
And  leave  the  ground  in  sad  array. 

The  foe,  exultant,  haste  to  gain, 
The  open  road  and  yielded  plain; 
Nor  think  that  aught  shall  now  prevent 
Fulfillment  of  their  whole  intent. 

Onward  they  march  till  steeples  rise 
On  either  hand  to  greet  their  eyes; 
Onward  they  march  till  at  their  feet 
The  city  spreads  in  calm  retreat; 
And  but  to  cross  yon  bridge,  when  stands 
The  city  captured  in  their  hands. 

But,  hark  !     What  means  that  thundering  sound, 

On  hill  beyond,  that  shakes  the  ground  ? 

Now  quick  as  thought,  full  overhead, 

A  whiz,  a  crash;  and  smoke  is  spread 

In  widening  circles  o'er  the  sky, 

While  iron  fragments  thickly  fly; 

They  pause,  'tis  heard  again,  and  fills 

Their  stricken  hearts  with  boding  ills; 

*Tis  gallant  Graham  and  his  band, 

Have  timely  come  to  bid  them  stand; 

Anon,  the  tramp  of  rushing  steeds 

Salutes  their  ears,  and  wildly  feeds 

Their  growing  panic,  till  in  view, 

Bold  Deering  rides  with  horsemen  true, 

Dismounts  his  men,  and  with  a  shout, 

Descends  the  hill,  when  full  about 

They  quickly  turn,  and  o'er  the  track 

They  lately  came,  go  speeding  back. 

The  conflict  o'er,  the  storm  is  past, 
And  Petersburg  is  saved  at  last. 

One  of  the  heroes  of  this  battle  was  Captain  Edward  G: 
ham,  of  Graham's  Battery. 


CULLING S  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY  85 


THE  BATTLE  OF  BETHEL  CHURCH. 

As  hurtles  the  tempest 

Proclaiming  the  storm, 
The  Northern  Invaders 
Tumulttiously  swarm; 
Loudly  rings  their  battle  cry 
Glares  with  fury  every  eye, 
Virginia's  sons  they  swear  shall  die 
Or  wear  their  chains  of  slavery. 

As  meets  the  chafed  ocean 

The  immutable  rock, 
The  bravest  Southern  freemen 
Await  the  battle's  shock. 

Firm  is  every  lip  compressed, 
"Front  to  foe"  is  every  breast, 
While  silent  prayer  to  Heaven  attest 
Resolve  for  death  or  victory. 

They  number  by  thousands 

The  men  who  assail 
The  hundreds  that  wait  them; 
Oh!  can  they  prevail? 

Spoils  and  beauty  urge  the  fray, 
Hearts  and  homes  contest  the  day, 
Fiercely  brand  the  battles  bray, 
While  Right  and  Might  strive  valiantly. 

Down  sweep  the  invaders 
Like  billows  of  storm — 
Dead,  wounded  and  dying 
They  backward  are  borne. 
Vain  they  rally,  vain  return, 
Lead  and  steel  and  graves  they  earn; 
And  angels  guard  the  ranks  from  harm 
Who  fight  for  home  and  liberty. 

See!  see!  they  are  flying, 

Quick,  up  and  pursue, 
And  mete  out  the  measure 
To  them  which  is  due. 
Wolves  as  brave  from  sheep  folds  fly; 
Lambs  less  swift  from  lions  fly; 
While  thanks  ascends  to  Him  on  high 
Who  gave  our  arms  the  victory. 

— New  Orleans  Delta. 
June  10,  1861. 


86  CULLINGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY. 


ROBBING  THE  CRADLE.' 


Battle  of  Newmarket. 

One  of  the  bravest  battles  of  the  war  was  fought  by  the  boys 
of  the  Virginia  Military  Institute,  at  Newmarket,  Va.  The 
boys  were  so  young  that  the  army  bands  played  "  Rock-a-bye 
Baby  "  as  they  passed  through  the  streets  of  Staunton,  Va. 

The  following  description  was  written  by  Mr.  John  S.  Wise, 
of  New  York  City,  who  was  one  of  the  famous  band: 

According  to  the  records  of  the  institute  the  Federal  forces 
engaged  in  the  fight  numbered  from  10,000  to  12,000  men,  com 
manded  by  General  Franz  Sigel.  The  Confederate  comman 
der,  General  John  C.  Breckenridge,  had  less  than  3,000  men, 
including  the  corps  of  cadets.  The  Confederates  were  vic 
torious,  suffering  a  loss  of  68  killed  and  337  wounded.  The 
Federal  loss  was  242  killed,  560  wounded  and  240  missing. 

The  cadets  went  into  the  fight  with  225  men.  Their  loss 
was  52 — killed  8,  wounded  44.  Among  the  wounded  was  Lieut. 
Col.  Scott  Shipp,  commanding  the  battalion.  Former  Repre 
sentative  John  S.  Wise,  wTho  was  seventeen  years  of  age  when 
he,  with  his  companion  cadets,  was  called  into  action  at  New 
market,  describes  how  the  boys  were  awakened  by  the  long 
roll  which  resounded  and  echoed  through  the  college  buildings 
at  midnight  of  May  11,  1864.  As  the  cadets  hurried  to  the  pa 
rade  ground  to  take  their  places  in  line,  they  found  a  group  of 
officers  intently  scanning  by  the  light  of  a  lantern  a  paper 
held  by  the  adjutant,  who  stood  near  the  statue  of  George 
Washington. 

"  The  companies  were  in  line,"  says  Mr.  Wise.  "  The  adju 
tant  commanded  attention,  and  proceeded  to  read  the  orders, 
which  announced  that  the  enemy  in  heavy  force  was  advanc 
ing  up  the  Shenandoah  Valley;  that  General  Lee  could  not 
spare  any  force  to  meet  them;  that  General  Breckenridge  had 
been  ordered  to  assemble  troops  from  Southwestern  Virginia 
and  elsewhere  at  Staunton,  and  that  the  cadets  should  join 
him  there  at  the  earliest  practicable  moment.  The  corps  was 
ordered  to  march  with  four  companies  of  infantry  and  a  section 
of  artillery  at  break  of  day. 

"  As  company  after  company  broke  ranks  the  air  was  rent 
with  wild  cheering  at  the  thought  that  our  hour  was  come  at 
last.  Elsewhere  in  the  Confederacy  death,  disaster,  disap 
pointment  may  have  by  this  time  chilled  the  ardor  of  our  peo 
ple,  but  here  in  this  little  band  of  fledgelings  the  hope  of  bat- 
flamed  as  brightly  as  on  the  morning  of  Manassas." 


CULLINGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY.          87 

Cadets  arrive  at  Staunton. 

The  cadets  marched  into  Staunton  the  afternoon  of  the  sec 
ond  day,  their  drummers  and  fifers  playing  "  The  Girl  I  Left 
Behind  Me."  The  town  was  filled  with  grim  Confederate  sol 
diers,  some  of  whom  were  inclined  to  poke  fun  at  the  trim  boy 
soldiers.  "  The  band  belonging  to  a  regiment  of  grimy  veter 
ans  struck  up  the  air  "  Rock-a-bye  Baby  "  when  the  cadets 
marched  by,"  said  Mr.  Wise,  "and  the  men  took  up  the  air,  ac 
companying  it  by  rocking  their  guns  in  their  arms  as  if  put 
ting  them  to  sleep."  It  was  not  long  before  this  regiment 
was  among  the  first  to  congratulate  the  lads  on  their  gallant 
conduct  in  the  fight  that  followed. 

After  describing  the  incidents  of  the  march,  the  enthusiastic 
reception  of  the  boy  soldiers  by  the  ladies  of  Staunton,  Har- 
risonburg  and  elsewhere,  Mr.  Wise  says  the  lads  marched 
with  the  steadiness  of  veterans  through  the  rain  that  had  set 
in  and  the  miry  mud,  and  there  were  but  few  "  lame  ducks." 

The  cadet  battalion  first  came  under  fire  about  11  o'clock 
Sunday  morning,  May  15,  1864,  from  a  six-gun  battery,  which 
was  posted  in  a  picturesque  little  Lutheran  cemetery,  under 
the  very  shadows  of  the  village  spires  and  among  the  white 
tombstones.  Firing  over  the  heads  of  the  Union  troops  in 
line  of  battle,  the  battery  opened  upon  the  cadets  the  moment 
they  came  in  sight.  Skirmishers  from  Echol's  Confederate 
Brigade  were  thrown  forward  at  a  run  and  engaged  the  Union 
forces.  Cadet  Corporal  Wise,  with  three  privates,  Redwood, 
Stanard  and  Woodlief,  had  been  placed  in  charge  of  the  bag 
gage  wagon.  When  it  was  clear  that  the  battle  was  imminent 
the  boys  left  the  team  in  charge  of  the  negro  driver  and  joined 
their  comrades  in  the  battle  line.  In  the  fight  that  followed 
one  of  the  four  was  killed  and  two  wounded. 

The  fighting  around  the  town  was  fierce  and  bloody.  The 
Federal  infantry  fell  back  to  the  second  line.  The  cadets  had 
captured  over  one  hundred  prisoners.  Cadet  Charles  J.  Faulk 
ner,  afterward  Senator  from  West  Virginia,  came  back  radiant 
in  charge  of  twenty-three  big  brawny  fellows,  and  insisted 
that  he  and  Winder  Garrett  had  captured  them. 

A  Trying  Moment. 

Again  an  advance  was  ordered,  and  the  cadets  responded 
with  a  cheer.  They  had  already  been  put  upon  their  mettle 
in  two  assaults.  Exhausted,  wet  to  the  skin,  muddy  to  their 
eyebrows,  some  of  them  shoeless,  they  notwithstanding  ad 
vanced  with  great  earnestness.  As  the  cadets  advanced  with 
a  dash  they  were  met  by  a  murderous  fire  of  shrapnel  and  can- 
nister,  while  the  Federal  infantry,  lying  behind  fence  rails 


88  CULLINGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY. 

piled  upon  the  ground,  poured  in  a  steady,  deadly  volley.  At 
one  discharge  Cabell,  first  sergeant  of  D  Company,  fell  dead, 
and  with  him  fell  Crockett  and  Jones.  A  blanket  would  have 
covered  the  three  bodies,  so  closely  were  they  lying  together. 
They  were  badly  mangled  by  cannister.  A  few  steps  further 
on  McDowell  sank  to  his  knees,  with  a  bullet  through  his 
heart.  Atwell,  Jefferson  and  Wheelwright  were  also  shot  at 
this  point.  Sam  Shriver,  cadet  captain  of  Company  C,  had  his 
sword  arm  broken  by  a  minnie  ball.  The  cadets  were  falling 
right  and  left. 

For  the  first  time  the  boys  appeared  irresolute  as  the  veter 
ans  on  their  right  seemed  to  waver.  Some  one  cried  out,  "  lie 
down,"  and  all  obeyed,  firing  from  the  knee — all  but  Evans, 
the  color  bearer,who  was  standing  bolt  upright  waving  the  flag. 
Some  one  exclaimed :  "  Fall  back  and  rally  on  Edgar's  bat 
talion."  Several  boys  moved  as  if  to  obey. 

A.  Pizzini,  first  sergeant  of  B  Company,  and  a  Richmond 
boy,  with  his  Corsican  blood  at  the  boiling  point,  cocked  his 
rifle  and  proclaimed  that  he  would  shoot  the  first  boy  that  ran. 
Suddenly  Henry  Wise,  known  as  "  Old  Shinook,"  and  beloved 
by  every  cadet,  sprang  to  his  feet  and  gave  the  command  to 
charge,  and  moving  in  advance  of  the  line  led  the  cadet  corps 
forward  to  the  Federal  battery  in  a  farm  yard  on  the  plateau 
at  the  head  of  a  cedar-skirted  ravine.  The  battery  was  being 
served  superbly.  The  musketry  fairly  rolled,  but  the  cadets 
never  faltered.  They  reached  the  firm  greensward  of  the  farm 
yard  in  which  the  guns  were  planted.  Before  the  order  to 
limber  up  could  be  obeyed  by  the  Federal  artillerymen  the 
cadets  disabled  the  teams  and  were  close  upon  the  guns.  The 
gunners  dropped  their  sponges  and  sought  safety  in  flight.  Lit 
tle  Lieutenant  Hanna  hammered  a  gunner  over  the  head  with 
his  cadet  sword.  Winder  Garrett  outran  another  and  lunged 
his  bayonet  into  him.  The  boys  leaped  upon  the  cannon  and 
the  battery  was  theirs.  Evans,  the  color  bearer,  stood  wildly 
waving  the  white  and  gold  cadet  flag  from  the  top  of  a  cais 
son. 

The  cadets  are  said  to  have  behaved  like  veterans  through 
out  the  fight,  and  five  days  later  the  battalion  was  ordered  to 
Richmond.  At  the  Confederate  capital  the  boys  were  gar 
landed,  cheered  by  thousands,  intoxicated  with  praise  as  they 
wheeled  proudly  around  the  Washington  monument,  their 
drummers  and  fifers  playing  "  Your  Bold  Soldier  Boy."  They 
were  presented  with  a  stand  of  colors  by  the  Governor  of  Vir 
ginia,  after  listening  to  a  speech  of  commendation  from  Presi 
dent  Davis. 


CULLINGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY. 

"OUR  LEFT"— MAN ASSA8. 

From  dawn  to  dark  they  stood 

That  long  midsummer  day! 
While  fierce  and  fast  the  battle  blast 

Swept  rank  on  rank  away. 

From  dawn  to  dark  they  fought, 
With  legions  swept  and  cleft, 

And  still  the  wide,  black  battle-tide 
Poured  deadlier  on  our  left. 

They  closed  each  ghastly  gap, 

They  dressed  each  shattered  rank — 

They  knew  how  well  that  freedom  fell 
With  that  exhausted  flank. 

Oh  for  a  thousand  men 

Like  those  who  melt  away! 
And  down  they  came  with  steel  and  flame, 

Four  thousand  to  the  fray! 

They  leapt  the  laggard  train — 
The  panting  steam  might  stay; 

And  down  they  came  with  steel  and  flame, 
Four  thousand  to  the  fray! 

Right  through  the  blackest  cloud 
Their  lightning  path  they  cleft, 

And  triumph  came  with  deathless  fame 
To  our  unconquered  left  ! 

Ye,  of  your  sons  secure! 

Ye  of  your  dead  bereft! 
Honor  the  brave,  who  died  to  save 

Your  all  upon  our  left! 
Dedicated  to  Gen.  Joseph  E.  Johnson,  Atlanta,  Ga. 


MANASSAS. 

(By  Catherine  M.  Warfield.) 
They  have  met  at  last — as  storm  clouds 

Meet  in  Heaven! 

And  their  thunders  have  been  stilled, 
And  their  leaders  crushed  or  killed, 
And  their  ranks,  with  terror  thrilled, 

Rent  and  riven! 

Like  the  leaves  of  Vallombrosa 

They  are  lying, 
In  the  moonlight,  in  the  midnight, 

Dead  and  dying; 

Like  those  leaves  before  the  gale 
Swept  their  legions,  wild  and  pale; 
While  the  host  that  made  them  quail 

Stood  defying. 


90          CULLING S  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY. 

When  aloft  in  morning  sunlight 

Flags  were  flaunted, 
And  "swift  vengeance  on  the  rebel" 

Proudly  vaunted, 
Little  did  they  think  that  night 
Should  close  upon  their  shameful  flight, 
And  rebels,  victors  in  the  fight, 

Stand  undaunted. 

But  peace  to  those  who  perished 

In  our  passes! 
Light  be  the  earth  above  them; 

Green  the  grasses! 
Long  shall  Northmen  rue  the  day 
When  they  met  our  stern  array, 
And  shrunk  from  battle's  wild  affray, 

At  Manassas! 

First  battle  of  Bull  Run,  July  21,  1861. 


HOME. 
(Composed  by  a  Confederate  officer.) 

What  is  the  sound  of  sweetness   that  thrills   the  wondrous 

breast, 
And  brings  with  magic  fleetness  fond  thoughts  of  peace  and 

rest? 

What  is  that  word  of  gladness  that  o'er  the  heart  doth  come, 
With  mingled  joy  and  gladness? — 'Tis  Home,  Sweet  Home. 

Oh,  touching  is  the  feeling,  when  scenes  of  days  long  past, 
Upon  the  memory  stealing,  their  vivid  image  cast — 
Though  cares  are  gathering  o'er  us,   as   far  and   wide  we 

roam, 
That  hope  is  still  before  us — of  Home,  dear  Home. 

And  why  is  home  thus  pleasant,   why   should  that  magic 

sound 

Bring  future,  past  and  present,  in  one  bright  chain  around? 
Because  in  fond  connection  with  it,  in  ideal,  come 
Those  objects  of  affection — at  Home,  loved  Home. 

Because  of  childish  hours  there  spent  beneath  its  shade, 
Around  its  verdant  bowers,  and  by  its  streams  we  played. 
Sweet  hours  of  youthful  pleasure — that  never  more  can 

come, 

Your  memory  still  we  treasure — in  Home,  Sweet  Home. 
July  26,  1864.  J.  A.  H. 

Dedicated  to  a  young  woman  of  Petersburg,  Va. 


CULLING S  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY.          91 


NOT   FOND   OF  BULLETS. 


Parson  Geesmore  Sought  the  Battle. 

Among  the  first  Confederate  troops  that  went  from  Arkan 
sas  was  Parson  Geesmore,  who  enlisted  as  a  chaplain. 

He  was  a  devoted  Christian,  and  his  prayers  were  regarded 
by  the  men  as  utterances  from  a  higher  power.  Just  before  the 
battle  of  Jenkins  Ferry  the  old  man,  in  a  sermon,  said: 

"  My  dear  boys,  I  have  decided  to  go  into  the  next  fight  with 
you.  I  don't  think  a  man  can  properly  preach  about  the  evils 
and  sensations  of  war  unless  he  has  experienced  the  feeling  of 
going  into  battle.  Now,  the  next  fighting  we  engage  in  will 
have  me  numbered  among  its  participants."  The  old  gentle 
man  rode  a  large  gray  horse,  and  when  preparations  for  the 
battle  of  Jenkins  Ferry  were  being  made,  he  appeared  on  the 
snowy  charger.  Some  of  the  officers  begged  him  to  keep  out  of 
danger,  but  with  an  expression  of  heroism  he  replied  that  he 
would  "  engage  in  the  battle."  The  first  artillery  fire  from 
the  enemy  shot  the  horse  from  under  the  old  gentleman,  and, 
by  the  time  he  settled  himself  on  his  feet,  a  bullet  came  along 
and  carried  off  one  of  his  fingers.  He  attempted  to  be  calm, 
but  just  then  a  bullet  carried  away  the  right  thumb,  and, 
wheeling  around,  the  old  man  struck  a  determined  trot  for  the 
rear. 

"  Hold  on,  parson  ! "  called  some  one. 

"  Hold  on,  h — 11,"  he  replied.  "  Ask  a  man  to  hold  on  when 
the  whole  d — d  universe  is  shooting  at  him  !  Take  care  of 
your  body  and  the  Maker  will  take  care  of  your  soul." 


FEMALE   SOLDIERS— A.   D.,   1862. 

Numbers  of  ladies  in  Tennessee  and  Mississippi — the  wives, 
daughters  and  sweethearts  of  the  soldiers  who  have  gone  into 
the  service  of  the  Confederacy — are  practicing  with  rifles  and 
revolvers,  preparing  to  render  assistance  in  the  "good  cause," 
if  necessary;  or  at  least  to  defend  their  homes.  Some  of  the 
ladies  of  Petersburg  (90  in  number)  are  following  the  good 
example,  and  expect  shortly  to  be  able  to  do  more  execution 
with  firearms  than  they  now  do  with  their  eyes,  under  the 
tutelage  of  Captain  Guy  Johnson. 


92          CULLINGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERA C Y. 

THE  LAST  MARTIAL  BUTTON. 

'Tis  the  last  martial  button  left  drooping  alone, 
All  its  honored  companions  are  cut  off  and  gone; 
They  are  gone — they  were  taken  and  carried  away, 
From  the  St.  Lawrence  River  to  Chesapeake  Bay. 

The  old  coat  is  tattered — grown  rusty,  its  gray; 

It  has  fought  its  last  fight  and  seen  its  best  day; 

And,  like  an  old  soldier  who  lives  in  the  past, 

Once  honored  and  brilliant,  now  with  sadness  o'ercast. 

This  old  wounded  coat,  its  brightness  all  fled, 
Recalls  scenes  of  glory  and  those  who  are  dead; 
On  the  field  of  Antietam  'twas  baptized  in  blood, 
And  he  who  thus  marked  it  there  went  to  his  God. 

When  in  thunder  and  smoke  war  went  through  the  air, 
And  lighted  the  green  hills  with  death's  ruddy  glare; 
By  the  side  of  that  hero,  old  "Stonewall,"  the  great — 
Who  can  think  of  his  greatness  and  not  mourn  his  fate? 

It  has  galloped  on  fields  when  the  battle  begun, 

And  marked  his  calm  smile  when  the  battle  was  won; 

In  the  first  flush  of  triumph,  the  quiet  of  camp, 

On  the  long  weary  march,  by  the  parlor's  bright  lamp. 

It  has  been  his  companion  by  night  and  by  day, 
As  it  gleamed  in  the  sun  or  the  moon's  pale  ray; 
By  his  bedside  of  death  a  mute  mourner  stood, 
As  it  caught  his  last  smile  or  wept  at  his  blood. 

It  then  heard  the  proud  grief  as  it  gushed  from  the  nation 
In  a  flood  of  wild  tears  and  a  great  lamentation, 
When  his  body  was  borne  gently  to  its  rest  in  the  grave, 
But  his  spirit  still  lives  with  the  true  and  the  brave. 

Yes,  this  old  "Rebel"  button,  so  tarnished  and  dim, 
I  have  thus  kept  most  fondly  in  memory  of  him; 
To  thee  I  now  give  it,  'tis  old  and  'tis  rare — 
It  has  followed  the  brave,  let  it  rest  with  the  fair. 

A  MARYLANDBR. 
By  a  staff  officer  of  Stonewall  Jackson's  command. 


TRUE   SOUTHERN    WOMEN. 

The  ladies  of  a  certain  town  in  the  "  Old  North  State,"  hear 
ing  that  one  of  the  commissioned  officers  of  their  town  mili 
tary  company  had  backed  out  on  a  call  being  made  upon  his 
company  by  Governor  Ellis,  sent  him  a  complete  outfit  of  petti 
coats,  etc.,  assuring  him  there  was  no  danger,  for  they  would 
take  care  of  him. 

Raleigh,  N.  C.,  1863. 


CULLINGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY.          93 


THE  CAP  THAT  POOR  HENDERSON  WORE. 

Tattered  and  threadbare,  greasy  and  torn, 

Faded  and  worn  though  it  be, 
Take  it  up  carefully,  Johnnie,  my  boy, 
'Tis  a  glorious  relic  to  me. 
It  is  full  of  a  hope  now  buried  with  him, 

To  gladden  my  bosom  no  more; 
So  take  it  and  hide  it  away  with  his  coat — 

The  cap  that  poor  Henderson  wore. 

'Twas  a  beautiful  grey  in  the  days  which  are  gone 

When  he  stood  in  his  youth  and  his  pride 
At  the  threshhold,  there,  neath  the  ivy  vine, 

To  welcome  his  new-made  bride; 
To  comfort  my  heart  with  words  of  cheer — 

So  bitterly  widowed  and  sore; 
And  joyous  and  bright  was  the  face  that  shone 

'Neath  the  cap  that  poor  Henderson  wore. 

They  took  him  away  from  home  and  heart 

To  the  fields  of  carnage  and  strife, 
And  the  months  went  by  like  the  drifting  clouds, 

And  the  joy  went  out  of  my  life. 
A  year  elapsed  and  he  came  not  back, 

But  my  heart  was  rent  to  its  core, 
When  a  package  came  from  the  lines  in  front 

With  the  cap  poor  Henderson  wore. 

With  the  starry  cross  in  his  dying  grasp, 

With  his  feet  to  the  routed  foe, 
He  yielded  his  life  to  the  land  he  loved, 

And  left  me  alone  in  my  woe. 
They  tell  me  the  shout  was  upon  his  lip, 

'Bove  the  cannon's  deafening  roar, 
When  a  missle  pierced  the  band  of  grey 

Of  the  cap  that  poor  Henderson  wore. 

So  take  it  and  hide  it  away  with  his  coat, 

Greasy  and  torn  though  it  be; 
It  is  all  that  remains  of  my  gallant  dead, 

That  was  dearer  than  country  to  me. 
Come  hide  it  away — 'tis  a  legacy,  boy, 

As  precious  as  jewels  and  more, 
Though  pierced  by  a  bullet  and  blackened  with  smoke, 

The  cap  that  poor  Henderson  wore. 

By  WILLIE  LIGHTHBART. 
Charleston,  S.  C. 


94          CULLING S  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY. 


A  CONFEDERATE    VALENTINE. 

To  Miss  Jewly  Ann  Pious. 

When  these  lines  you  read, 

Think  not  of  him  unkind, 
If  you  should  guess  who  sent  you  this 

For  a  valentine. 

I  merely  wish  to  tell  you 

Of  your  kindness  unto  me, 
When  I  was  sick  at  Poplar  Lawn, 

And  how  I  think  of  thee. 

O,  well  do  I  remember 

When  stricken  on  my  bed, 
Of  hearing  a  sweet,  soft  voice  exclaim, 

"  Here  is  a  piece  of  bread." 

Yes,  when  in  that  cold  quarter, 

And  nearly  fit  to  freeze, 
I  heard  that  same  sweet  voice  again 

Say  "take  it,  if  you  please." 

Then  how  can  I  forget 

The  one  who  in  that  hour, 
Kept  me  well  fed  with  bread  and  meat, 

O,  bless  her,  how  I  love  her  ! 

I  long  to  speak  right  out 

The  feelings  of  my  heart; 
How  I  love,  and  what  I'd  give 

To  have  a  wife  so  smart. 

Like  the  sun,  that  never  failed 

From  out  the  east  to  rise, 
You  every  morning  kindly  came, 

And  brought  me  apple  pies. 

When  from  the  office  you  get  this, 

And  read  its  every  line; 
Do  not  get  mad,  but  mildly  take 

This  Rebel  valentine. 

This  valentine  is  from  Peter  Barlow, 

Who  was  sick  in  the  hospital  a  short  time  ago. 

Picked  up,  A.  D.  1863. 


CULLINGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY.          05 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  SWORD. 

Weary  and  wounded  and  worn, 

Wounded  and  ready  to  die, 
A  soldier  they  left  all  alone  and  forlorn 

On  the  field  of  the  battle  to  lie. 
The  dead  and  the  dying  alone 

Could  their  presence  and  pity  afford, 
Whilst  with  a  sad  and  terrible  tone 

He  sang  the  song  of  the  sword. 

Fight!   fight!   fight! 

Though  a  thousand  fathers  die; 
Fight!  fight!  fight! 

Though  thousands  of  children  cry; 
Fight!  fight!  fight! 

Whilst  mothers  and  wives  lament; 
And  fight!  fight!   fight! 

Whilst  millions  of  money  are  spent. 

War!  war!  war! 

Fire  and  famine  and  sword; 
Desolate  fields  and  desolate  towns, 

And  thousands  scattered  abroad, 
With  never  a  home,  with  never  a  shed; 

Whilst  kingdoms  perish  and  fall, 
And  hundreds  of  thousands  are  lying  dead, 

And  all — for  nothing  at  all. 

War!  war!  war! 

Musket,  powder  and  ball; 
Ah!  what  are  we  fighting  for? 

And  why  have  we  battles  at  all? 
'Tis  justice  must  be  done,  they  say, 

The  nation's  honor  to  keep; 
Alas!  that  justice  is  so  dear, 

And  human  life  so  cheap. 

And  many  a  long,  long  day  of  woe, 

And  sleepless  nights  untold, 
And  drenching  rain  and  drifting  snow, 

And  weariness,  famine  and  cold; 
And  worn-out  limbs  and  aching  heart, 

And  grief  too  great  to  tell, 
And  bleeding  wound  and  piercing  smart, 

Had  I  escaped  full  well. 

Weary  and  wounded  and  worn — 

Wounded  and  ready  to  die, 
A  soldier  they  left,  all  alone  and  forlorn, 

On  the  field  of  the  battle  to  lie. 
The  dead  and  the  dying  alone 

Could  their  presence  and  pity  afford; 
Whilst  thus  with  a  sad  and  terrible  tone, 
(Oh!  would  that  these  truths  were  more  perfectly  known) 

He  sang  the  song  of  the  sword. 
From  an  English  author. 

Suggested  at  seeing  a  sick  and  wounded  Confederate  soldier 
left  to  die  at  the  Crater  Farm,  near  Petersburg,  Va.,  May  26, 
18«6. 


96          CULLINGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY. 

MY    FRIEND. 

(To  Infidelia.) 

[Written  by  Colonel  W.  S.  Hawkins,  C.  S.  A.  (prisoner  of 
war  at  Camp  Chase),  a  friend  of  a  fellow  prisoner  who  was 
engaged  to  be  married  to  a  Southern  lady.  She  proved  faith 
less  to  him.  The  letter  arrived  soon  after  his  death  and  was 
answered  by  Colonel  Hawkins  in  the  following  lines:] 

Your  letter  came,  but  came  too  late, 

For  Heaven  had  claimed  its  own; 
Oh,  sudden  changed,  from  prison  bars 

Unto  the  Great  White  Throne. 
And  yet,  I  think,  he  would  have  stayed 

For  one  more  day  of  pain, 
Could  he  have  read  those  tardy  words 

Which  you  have  sent  in  vain. 

Why  did  you  wait,  fair  lady, 

Through  so  many  a  weary  hour  ? 
Had  you  other  lovers  with  you, 

In  that  silken,  dainty  bower  ? 
Did  others  bow  before  your  charms, 

And  twine  bright  garlands  there  ? 
And  yet,  I  ween,  in  all  the  throng 

His  spirit  had  no  peer. 

I  wish  that  you  were  by  me  now, 

As  I  draw  the  sheet  aside, 
To  see  how  pure  the  look  he  wore 

Awhile  before  he  died. 
Yet,  the  sorrow  that  you  gave  him, 

Still  has  left  its  weary  trace, 
And  a  meek  and  saintly  sadness 

Dwells  upon  that  pallid  face. 

"  Her  love,"  said  he,  "  could  change  for  me 

The  winter's  cold  to  spring:" 
Ah  !  trust  of  thoughtless  maiden's  love, 

Thou  art  a  bitter  thing  ! 
For  when  those  valleys  fair,  in  May, 

Once  more  with  blooms  shall  wave, 
The  Northern  violets  shall  blow 

Upon  his  humble  grave. 

Your  dole  of  scanty  words  had  been 

But  one  more  pang  to  bear; 
Though  to  the  last,  he  kissed  with  love 

The  tress  of  your  soft  hair. 
I  did  not  put  it  where  he  said, 

For,  when  the  angels  come, 
I  would  not  have  them  find  the  sign 

Of  falsehood  in  his  tomb. 


CULLING S  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY.          97 


I've  read  your  letter,  and  I  know 

The  wiles  that  you  have  wrought 
To  win  that  noble  heart  of  his, 

And  gain  it;  fearful  thought  ! 
What  lavish  wealth  men  sometimes  give 

For  a  trifle,  light  and  small; 
What  manly  forms  are  often  held 

In  folly's  flimsy  thrall. 


You  shall  not  pity  him,  for  now 

He's  past  your  hope  and  fear; 
Although  I  wish  that  you  could  stand 

With  me  beside  his  bier. 
Still,  I  forgive  you;  Heaven  knows, 

For  mercy  you'll  have  need, 
Since  God  His  awful  judgment  sends 

On  each  unworthy  deed. 

To-night  the  cold  wind  whistles  by, 

As  I,  my  vigils  keep, 
Within  the  prison  dead-house,  where 

Few  mourners  come  to  weep. 
A  rude  plank  coffin  holds  him  now, 

Yet  death  gives  always  grace; 
And  I  had  rather  see  him  thus 

Than  clasped  in  your  embrace. 


To-night  your  rooms  are  very  gay, 

With  wit  and  wine  and  song; 
And  you  are  smiling  just  as  if 

You  never  did  a  wrong. 
Your  hand,  so  fair,  that  none  would  think 

It  penned  these  words  of  pain; 
Your  skin  so  white — I  would  your  soul 

Were  half  so  free  of  stain. 


I'd  rather  be  this  dear,  dear  friend. 

Than  you,  in  all  your  glee; 
For  you  are  held  in  grievous  bonds, 

While  he's  forever  free. 
Whom  serve  we  in  this  life,  we  serve 

In  that  which  is  to  come; 
He  chose  his  way — you  yours;  let  God 

Pronounce  the  fitting  doom. 

Camp  Chase,  December,  A.  D.  1861, 


CU LUNGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY. 


LORENA. 

The  years  creep  slowly  by,  Lorena, 

The  snow  is  on  the  grass  again; 
The  sun's  low  down  the  sky,  Lorena, 

The  frost  gleams  where  the  flowers  have  been; 
But  the  heart  throbs  on  as  warmly  now, 

As  when  the  summer  days  were  nigh; 
Oh!  the  sun  can  never  dip  so  low, 

Adown  affection's  cloudless  sky. 

A  hundred  months  have  passed.  Lorena, 

Since  last  I  held  that  hand  in  mine; 
And  felt  the  pulse  beat  fast,  Lorena — 

Though  mine  beat  faster  far  than  thine; 
A  hundred  months  'twas  flowery  May, 

When  up  the  hilly  slope  we  climbed 
To  watch  the  dying  of  the  day, 

And  hear  the  distant  church  bells  chime. 

We  loved  each  other  then,  Lorena, 

More  than  we  ever  dared  to  tell; 
And  what  we  might  have  been,  Lorena, 

Had  but  our  lovings  prospered  well — 
But  then — 'tis  past  the  years  are  gone, 

I'll  not  call  up  their  shadowy  forms; 
I'll  say  to  them,  "lost  years  sleep  on! 

Sleep  on!  Nor  heed  life's  pelting  storms." 

The  story  of  that  past,  Lorena, 

Alas!  I  care  not  to  repeat; 
The  hopes  that  could  not  last,  Lorena, 

They  lived,  but  only  lived  to  cheat. 
I  would  not  cause  e'en  one  regret 

To  rankle  in  your  bosom  now; 
For  "if  we  try,  we  may  forget," 

Were  words  of  thine  long  years  ago. 


Yes,  these  were  words  of  thine,  Lorena, 

They  burn  within  my  memory  yet; 
They  touched  some  tender  chords.  Lorena, 

Which  thrill  and  tremble  with  regret. 
'Twas  not  thy  woman's  heart  that  spoke; 

Thy  heart  was  always  true  to  me, 
A  duty,  stern  and  pressing,  broke 

The  tie  which  linked  my  soul  with  thee. 

It  matters  little  now,  Lorena, 

The  past  is  in  th'  eternal  past, 
Our  heads  will  soon  lie  low,  Lorena, 

Life's  tide  is  ebbing  out  so  fast; 
There  is  a  future!  Oh,  thank  God! 

Of  life  this  is  so  small  a  part! 
'Tie  dust  to  dust  beneath  the  sod; 

But  there,  up  there,  'tis  heart  to  heart. 


CALLINGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY.          99 

Mr.   X :     Wishing   to   screen   the   regiment   of   "tinsel 

chivalry,"  that  has  taken  shelter  and  protection  under  the 
Provost  Marshal,  Quartermaster,  Paymaster,  Tithing  Master 
and  other  numberless  officers,  which  are  created  for  those  who 
fear  to  face  the  music,  and  thereby  secure  one  a  partner  for 
life,  I  must  beg  the  favor  of  you  to  insert  the  annexed  in  your 
valuable  paper  and  oblige, 

AN  OLD  MAID. 

MEN    IN    LACE   AND    BRAID. 

Standing  on  the  corner, 

Decked  in  braid  and  lace; 
Scarcely  room  to  pass  them, 

Staring  in  your  face. 
Staring  at  the  ladies, 

Decked  in  lace  and  braid, 
Braid — courageous  soldiers, 

They  are  not  afraid. 

The  brave  deeds  of  their  comrades, 

Deeds  they  might  have  done, 
Are  themes  whereon  they  chatter, 

Chatter  ever  on. 
They  go  not  into  danger, 

These  men  in  lace  and  braid, 
Their  uniforms  might  tarnish — 

Not  that  they  are  afraid. 

Our  Generals,  they  discuss  them 

With  a  supercilious  air, 
And  they  speak  of  bloody  battles 

As  if  they  had  been  there. 
No  subject  can  escape  them, 

To  speak  they're  not  afraid; 
What  would  we  do  without  them  ? 

The  men  in  lace  and  braid. 


ALL'S   NOISE    ALONG   THE   APPOMATTOX. 

All's  noise  along  the  Appomattox  to-night, 

For  Grant,  with  his  Whitworths  and  Parrots, 
Is  shelling  our  town  from  left  to  right, 

From  "Pocahontas"  to  "Jarratt's." 
He  finds  that  we  "Rebels"  will  not  resign, 

We  are  ready  for  every  new  comer; 
So  he  only  can  shell  us  out  on  that  line, 

If  it  takes  him  all  the  summer. 

All's  noise  along  the  Appomattox  to-night, 

For  Grant  continues  his  shelling, 
With  a  hissing  fuse  and  a  lurid  light, 

As  it  bursts  o'er  some  peaceful  dwelling. 


100        CULLING 'S  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY. 

He  may  batter  this  town  with  a  hundred  great  guns, 
She'll  not  cringe,  nor  ask  him  for  quarter; 

She  has  spent  too  freely  the  blood  of  her  sons 
To  care  for  his  bricks  and  mortar. 

All's  noise  along  the  Appomattox  to-night, 

For  Grant  with  his  miners  so  valiant, 
Has  dug  a  mine  and  exploded  a  vent 

To  "blow  up  the  Rebel  Salient." 
But  "Billy  Mahone,"  who's  polite  as  he's  brave, 

Only  bows  and  says  "Gentl'men  I  thank  thee! 
'Tis  true  you  dug  us  a  forty-foot  grave, 

But  we  filled  it  up  level  with  Yankee. 
Battle  of  the  Crater,  A.  D.  1863. 


UPI  DEI  Dl. 

The  shades  of  night  was  falling  fast, 

Tra  la  la!  tra  la  la! 
The  bugler  blew  his  well-known  blast, 

Tra  la  la  la  la. 

No  matter,  be  there  rain  or  snow, 
That  bugler  still  is  bound  to  blow — 

Upi  dei  dei  di  ! 
Upi  de  !  upi  di  ! 

Upi  dei  dei  di  ! 
Upi  dei  di. 

On  the  fire  he  spied  a  pot, 

Tra  la  la  !  tra  la  la  ! 
Choicest  viands  smoking  hot, 

Tra  la  la  la  la. 

Says  he  "  you  shant  enjoy  that  stew," 
So  "  Boots  and  Saddles  "  loudly  blew — 

Upi  dei  dei  di  ! 
Upi  de  !  upi  di  ! 

Upi  dei  dei  di  ! 
Upi  dei  di. 

Soldiers,  you  are  made  to  fight, 

Tra  la  la  !  tra  la  la  ! 
To  starve  all  day  and  march  all  night, 

Tra  la  la  la  la  ! 

Perchance  if  you  get  bread  and  meat, 
That  bugler  will  not  let  you  eat — 

Upi  dei  dei  di  ! 
Upi  de  !  upi  di  ! 

Upi  dei  die  di  ! 
Upi  dei  di. 

As  sung  by  the  Washington   Artillery  New   Orleans,  La. 
A.  D.  1862. 


CULLINGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY.         101 


SWEETHEARTS  AND  WAR. 

Oh,  it  is  shameful,  I  declare, 

To  make  the  men  all  go — 
And  leave  so  many  sweethearts  here       \  /  i  "••* 

Without,  a  single  beau. 
We  like  to  see  them  brave,  'tis  true, 

And  would  not  urge  them  stay, 
But  what  are  we  poor  girls  to  do 

When  they  are  all  away. 

We  told  them  we  could  spare  them  there, 

Before  they  had  to  go — 
But  bless  their  hearts,  we  weren't  aware 

That  we  should  miss  them  so. 
We  miss  them  all,  in  many  ways, 

But  truth  will  ever  out, 
The  greatest  thing  we  miss  them  for 

Is  seeing  us  about. 

On  Sunday,  when  we  go  to  church, 

We  look  in  vain  for  some 
To  greet  us  smiling  on  the  porch 

And  ask  to  see  us  home, 
And  then  we  can't  enjoy  a  walk 

Since  all  the  beaux  have  gone, 
For  what's  the  good  (to  use  plain  talk), 

If  we  must  trudge  alone? 

But  what's  the  use  of  talking  thus, 

We'll  try  to  be  content; 
And  if  they  cannot  come  to  us, 

A  letter  may  be  sent. 
And  that's  one  comfort,  anyway, 

For  though  we  are  apart, 
There  is  no  reason  why  we  may 

Not  open  heart  to  heart. 


We  trust  it  soon  will  come 

To  a  sure  and  final  test, 
We  want  to  see  our  Southern  homes 

Secured  in  peaceful  rest — 
But  if  the  blood  of  those  we  love 

In  freedom's  cause  must  flow, 
With  fervent  trust  in  God  above, 

We  bid  them  onward  go. 

And  we  will  watch  them  as  they  go, 

And  cheer  them  on  their  way; 
Our  arms  shall  be  their  resting-place 

When  wounded  sore  they  lay. 
Oh!  if  the  sons  of  Southern  soil, 

For  freedom's  cause  must  die, 
Her  daughters  ask  no  dearer  boon 

Than  by  their  side  to  lie. 


102        CULLINGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY. 

IN   THE   LAND  WHERE   WE   WERE   DREAMING. 
(By  Dan.  Lucas,  of  Jefferson  County.) 

Fair  were  our  visions!  Oh!  they  were  as  grand 
AS  ever  floated  out  of  Fancy  Land; 
,  Children  were  we  in  single  faith, 
,  ,  But  God-like  children,  whom,  nor  death, 

Nor  threat,  nor  danger  drove  from  Honor's  path 
In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 


Proud  were  our  men,  as  pride  of  birth  could  render, 
As  violets  our  women,  pure  and  tender; 
And  when  they  spoke  their  voice  did  thrill 
Until  at  eve  the  whip-poor-will, 
At  morn  the  mocking-bird,  were  mute  and  still 
In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 

And  we  had  graves  that  covered  more  of  glory 
Than  ever  taxed  tradition's  ancient  story; 
And  in  our  dream  we  wove  the  thread 
Of  principles  for  which  had  bled 
And  suffered  long  our  own  immortal  dead. 
In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 

Though  in  our  land  we  had  both  bond  and  free, 
Both  were  content;  and  so  God  let  them  be — 
'Till  envy  coveted  our  land. 
And  those  fair  fields  our  valor  won, 
But  little  recked  we  for  we  still  slept  on, 
In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 


Our  sleep  grew  troubled  and  our  dreams  grew  wild- 
Red  meteors  flashed  across  our  Heaven's  field; 
Crimson  the  moon;  between  the  Twins 
Barbed  arrows  fly,  and  then  begins 
Such  strife  as  when  disorder's  Chaos  reigns 
In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 


Down  from  her  sunlit  heights  smiled  Liberty, 
And  waved  her  cap  in  sign  of  Victory — 
The  world  approved,  and  everywhere, 
Except  where  growled  the  Russian  Bear, 
The  good,  the  brave,  the  just  gave  us  their  prayer, 
In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 


We  fancied  that  a  Government  was  ours — 
We  challenged  place  among  the  world's  great  powers; 
We  talked  in  sleep  of  Rank,  Commission, 
Until  so  life-like  grew  our  vision, 
That  he  who  dared  to  doubt  but  met  derision 
In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 


CULLING*  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY.         103 

We  looked  on  high;  a  banner  there  was  seen, 
Whose  field  was  blanched  and  spotless  in  its  sheen — 
Chivalry's  cross  its  Union  bears, 
And  vet'rans  swearing  by  the  scars, 
Vowed  they  would  bear  it  through  a  hundred  wars, 
In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 


A  hero  came  amongst  us  as  we  slept; 
At  first  he  lowly  knelt,  then  rose  and  wept; 
Then  gathering  up  a  thousand  spears 
He  swept  across  the  field  of  Mars; 
Then  bowed  farewell  and  walked  beyond  the  stars, 
In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 


We  look  again,  another  figure  still 
Gave  hope,  and  nerved  each  individual  will — 
Pull  of  grandeur,  clothed  with  power, 
Self-  poised,  erect,  he  ruled  the  hour 
With  stern,  majestic  sway — of  strength  a  tower, 
In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 


As,  while  great  Jove,  in  bronze,  a  ward  of  God, 
Gazed  eastward  from  the  Forum  where  he  stood, 
Rome  felt  herself  secure  and  free, 
So  "Richmond's  safe,"  we  said,  while  we 
Beheld  a  bronzed  hero — God-like  Lee, 
In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 


As  wakes  the  soldier  when  the  alarum  calls — 
As  wakes  the  mother  when  the  infant  falls — 
As  starts  the  traveler  when  around 
His  sleeping  couch  the  fire-bells  sound — 
So  woke  our  nation  with  a  single  bound 
In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 


Woe!  woe  is  me!  the  startled  mother  cried — 
While  we  have  slept,  our  noble  sons  have  died! 
Woe!  woe  is  me!  how  strange  and  sad, 
That  all  our  glorious  visions  fled, 
And  left  us  nothing  real,  but  the  dead, 
In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 

And  are  they  really  dead,  our  martyred  slain? 
No!  dreamers!  morn  shall  bid  them  rise  again 
From  every  vale — from  every  height 
On  which  they  seemed  to  die  for  right — 
Their  gallant  spirits  shall  renew  the  fight 
In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 


104          CULLINGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY. 


A    BRAVE   GIRL'S   FATE. 

The  battle  riot  raged  without 

A  city's  strong,  defiant  walls; 
And  hissing  shot  and  murd'rous  shell 

Went  crashing  through  the  palace  halls. 
O,  Charleston  !  great  and  gay  of  old, 

Then  hopeful  hearts  throbbed  high  in  thee, 
Nor  dreamed  that  through  the  gates  of  flame 

Must  thou  be  brought  to  fealty. 

Brave,  earnest  men  put  by  their  trades, 

And  hurled  back  answers  through  the  air, 
And  wives  and  children  fled  their  homes 

In  frantic  haste  and  mad  despair. 
"Dear  father,  I  will  never  leave; 

From  our  own  roof  I'll  not  be  driven, 
While  you  are  here  I  stay;  this  vow 

Be  written  in  the  books  of  Heaven  ! " 

A  fragile  girl,  with  noble  heart, 

Too  great  for  such  a  slender  form, 
Trusting  her  woman's  fortitude 

To  bear  her  through  the  battle  storm. 
Through  those  long,  anxious,  toilsome  days, 

With  blood  and  carnage  everywhere, 
She  soothed  the  wounded  in  their  pain 

And  for  the  dying  offered  prayer. 

One  soldier  of  the  many  there, 

Who  fell  while  cheering  on  his  men, 
Her  gentle  hand  and  tender  care 

Alone  had  won  to  life  again. 
His  gratitude  warmed  into  love 

The  strong,  deep  passion  true  men  know, 
"  Promise  you  will  be  mine,"  he  said, 

"  Before  again  I  front  the  foe." 

Then  rang  the  joyous  bells  once  more, 

Friends  pat  their  fears  back  out  of  sight, 
The  grateful  city's  aid  and  pride 

Must  have  a  merry  bridal  night. 
Bland  April  airs  and  love's  first  dream 

Deepened  the  rose  tint  on  her  cheek, 
And  from  the  far  depths  of  her  eyes 

Looked  thoughts  that  only  eyes  can  speak. 

The  holy  man  began  to  read — 

A  deafening  sound;  oh,  pitiful  ! 
Was  there  no  other  sacrifice 

In  all  that  mighty  city  full  ? 
O,  fateful  shell  that  came  that  way  ! 

Who  are  the  wounded,  who  the  dead  ': 
They  only  saw  the  expectant  bride 

In  anguish  bow  her  crowned  head. 


CULLINGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY.         105 

The  bright  blood  stained  her  snowy  dress; 

"  She  cannot  live,"  the  surgeon  said, 
"  Spare  her,  Oh  God  !"  her  lover  cried, 

"  Spare  her,  and  take  my  life  instead." 
"  I  would  die  worthy  of  such  love," 

She  murmured,  struggling  with  her  pain. 
Her  parents  wrung  their  helpless  hands 

And  wildly  called  their  darling's  name. 

The  stricken  soldier  staunched  the  wound, 

"  Before  the  final  chord  is  riven 
Be  mine,"  he  plead  the  dying  girl, 

"  My  bride  on  earth  and  mine  in  Heaven." 
Her  lips  said  "yes,"  with  scarce  a  sound, 

Her  white  hand  faltered  toward  his  own; 
How  mockingly  the  diamond  light 

Upon  the  slender  finger  shone. 

In  sobbing  words  the  rites  were  said, 

A  faint  smile  crossed  her  pallid  face, 
The  fair  form  turned  to  chilly  clay 

Within  his  first  and  last  embrace. 
The  warrior  prayed  that  his  right  arm 

Be  strong  to  slay  a  host  of  foes, 
Then  in  some  battle's  blinding  storm 

A  quick,  close  shot,  might  end  his  woes. 

An  hour's  brief  time,  and  what  a  change, 
Where  two  such  happy  hearts  had  beat, 

One  bursts  beneath  its  weight  of  woe; 
One  sleeps  within  its  winding  sheet. 

Accursed  war  !  and  scenes  like  these — 
Forever  follow  in  thy  train. 

MIRIAM  ERLB. 
Charleston,  S.  C.,  A.  D.  1864. 


FIGHT  ON  !      FIGHT   EVER  I 

The  following  lines  were  composed  by  Dr.  D.  M.  Wright, 
while  confined  in  Norfolk  jail,  and  at  the  time  when,  with 
frenzied  joy,  the  Yankees  anticipated  the  speedy  destruction 
of  Charleston.  They  breathe  the  spirit  of  a  true  patriot,  undis 
mayed  by  the  horrors  which  surrounded  him: 

Still  wave  the  stars  and  bars 

O'er  Sumter's  battered  walls; 
Still  ring  the  loud  huzzas, 

Still  whiz  the  dreaded  balls. 

In  vain  doth  Ironsides 

Belch  forth  her  ponderous  shell, 

Old  Sumter  but  derides 

Her  might.    All's  well  !  All's  well  ! 


106         CULLING S  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY. 

Stand  firm,  stand  firm,  ye  braves, 

Your  country's  flag  defend; 
Let  ireemen's  new-made  graves 

Fresh  courage  to  you  lend. 

Fight  them  till  the  last  shot 
Has  on  its  errand  sped; 
Fight  them  whilst  yet  a  spot 
Of  earth  remains  to  tread. 
Norfolk  City  Jail,  7th  of  September,  A.  D.  1863. 

Dr.  Wright  was  cruelly  murdered  by  the  Federal  Govern 
ment.     He  was  not  only  a  patriot,  but  a  Southern  martyr. 


A  PRIVATE  IN   THE   RANKS. 

Suggested  by  a  Chapter  in  "  Macaria." 

By  C.  E.  McC. 
No  tinselled  bar  his  collar  bears; 

No  epaulette  or  star, 
With  glitter  bright  his  mind  to  charm 

Amid  the  din  of  war. 
But  in  his  soul  the  sacred  light 
Of  liberty  burns  clear  and  bright; 
A  private  in  the  ranks. 

And  not  to  win  the  bar  or  stripe 

He  rushes  to  the  fight; 
But  strong  of  arm  and  stern  of  heart 

He  battles  for  the  right. 
He  knows  no  voice  but  duty's  call, 
And  breasts  the  bullets — stand  or  fall, 

The  private  in  the  ranks. 

All,  all  have  come  !the  nations  cry 
Has  throbbed  their  hearts  among, 

And  mother,  wife  or  maiden  fair, 
Must  suffer  and  be  strong. 

The  sire,  with  scarce  a  year  to  live; 

The  boy,  with  all  his  life  to  give, 
Are  privates  in  the  ranks. 

And  when  the  quick,  electric  flash 

Proclaims  the  battle  done, 
How  many  hearts  exultant  throb — 

Another  victory  won. 
And  search  the  death  lists  eagerly 
For  names  they'd  rather  die  than  see, 

Of  privates  in  the  ranks. 

The  meed  of  praise  we  gladly  give 

To  all  who  dare  the  scars, 
And  care  but  little  what  they  wear, 

Coarse  gray  or  stars  and  bars. 
But  most  our  love  to  those  belongs 
Who  bravely  right  their  country's  wrongs, 

The  privates  in  the  ranks. 
Dauphin  Island,  May  5,  A.  D.  1864. 


CULLINGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY.         107 


BUTLER. 


"  Brick  "  Pomeroy's  Dog. 

I  had  a  friend  who  went  to  the  war.  He  got  a  situation  as 
army  chaplain.  He  got  a  yellow-colored  dog  and  sent  it  to  me. 
I  could  at  the  time  hardly  support  myself,  much  less  a  dog  also, 
for  I  was  a  Democrat.  But  the  man  was  a  friend  of  mine,  and 
moreover  he  was  off  at  the  war  periling  his  life  eating  pre 
serves  intended  for  sick  soldiers.  So  I  kept  the  dog,  but  I  did 
not  name  it  after  my  friend,  for  it  was  an  ordinary  dog.  I 
didn't  name  him  Butler,  out  of  respect  to  the  dog.  So  I  con- 
eluded  to  name  him  "  Banks."  He  wasn't  much  on  fighting, 
but  was  good  on  paper  collars,  and  sometimes  had  a  wag 
on-load  at  a  time.  Then  I  changed  his  name  to  "  Beecher," 
but  inasmuch  as  the  other  dogs  around  town  had  no  money, 
they  couldn't  pay  him  to  hold  services  for  them.  But  one  day  I 
got  mad  with  the  dog  and  called  him  "  Ben  Butler."  He  rather 
"wilted  on  the  turn,"  but  still  he  stood  for  it.  It  is  surprising 
how  much  some  dogs  can  stand.  Whenever  he'd  go  about 
town  and  see  other  dogs  fighting,  he  went  for  spoons,  and  then 
go  to  the  telegraph  office  and  send  off  a  report  of  his  fights.  He 
was  an  educated  dog.  One  day  in  a  Bible-banging  church  they 
took  up  a  collection.  The  dog  stole  the  contribution  boxes 
and  brought  them  to  me.  I  saw  they  were  conquered  prop 
erty,  but  not  knowing  to  whom  they  belonged  was  unable 
to  return  them.  So  I  opened  them  and  found — not  a  cent  in 
side.  The  dog  used  to  want  to  become  an  engraver.  He 
would  watch  at  the  engraver's  windows  to  see  the  names  en 
graved  on  silver  spoons,  and  then  steal  spoons  and  all.  Ike 
would  look  in  the  jewelry  stores  for  hours  at  a  time,  and  would 
follow  any  man  with  jewelry  on  him.  I've  even  known  him  to 
follow  a  coffin  for  five  or  six  miles  to  steal  the  silver  plate  off 
it.  So  finally  I  got  disgusted  with  the  dog  and  turned  him 
loose,  and  the  next  thing  I  found  he  was  sent  to  Congress 
from  Massachusetts. 

New  Orleans,  1863. 


108         CULLING S  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY, 


A  GEORGIA  VOLUNTEER. 

Far  up  the  lonely  mountain  side 

My  wandering  footsteps  led; 
The  moss  lay  thick  beneath  my  feet, 

The  pine  sighed  over  head, 
The  trace  of  a  dismantled  fort 

Lay  in  the  forest  wave, 
And  in  the  shadow  near  my  path 

I  saw  a  soldier's  grave. 

The  bramble  wrestled  with  the  weed 

Upon  the  lowly  mound, 
The  simple  head-board,  rudely  writ, 

Had  rotted  to  the  ground; 
I  raised  it  with  a  reverent  hand, 

From  dust  its  words  to  clear; 
But  time  had  blotted  all  but  these — 

"A  Georgia  Volunteer." 

I  saw  the  toad  and  scaly  snake 

From  tangled  coverts  start, 
And  hide  themselves  among  the  weeds 

Above  the  dead  man's  heart; 
But  undisturbed  in  sleep  profound, 

Unheeding  there  he  lay — 
His  coffin  but  the  mountain  soil, 

His  shroud,  Confederate  gray. 

I  heard  the  Shenandoah  roll 

Along  the  vale  below, 
I  saw  the  Alleghanies  rise 

Towards  the  realms  of  snow, 
The  "Valley  campaign"  rose  to  mind — 

It's  leader's  name — and  then, 
I  knew  the  sleeper  had  been  one 
Of  Stonewall  Jackson's  men. 

Yet  whence  he  came,  what  lip  shall  say, 

What  tongue  will  never  tell. 
What  desolated  hearths  and  hearts 

Have  been  because  he  fell? 
What  sad-eyed  maiden  braids  her  hair, 

Her  hair  which  he  held  dear? 
One  lock  of  which  perchance  lies  with 

The  Georgia  Volunteer. 


What  mother  with  long  watching  eyes, 

And  white  lips  cold  and  dumb, 
Waits  with  appalling  patience  for 

Her  darling  boy  to  come? 
Her  boy!  whose  mountain  grave  swells  up, 

But  one  of  many  a  scar 
Cut  on  the  face  of  our  fair  land 

By  gory-handed  war! 


CULLING S  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY.         109 

What  fights  he  fought,  what  wounds  ne  wore, 

Are  all  unknown  to  fame; 
Remember  on  his  lonely  grave 

There  is  not  e'en  a  name! 
That  he  fought  well,  and  bravely,  too, 

And  held  his  country  dear, 
We  know — else  he  had  never  been 

"A  Georgia  Volunteer." 

He  sleeps — what  need  we  question  now 

If  he  were  wrong  or  right, 
He  knows,  ere  this,  whose  cause  was  just 

In  God,  the  Father's  sight. 
He  wields  no  warlike  weapons  now, 

Returns  no  foeman's  thrust — 
Who,  but  a  coward,  would  revile 

An  honest  soldier's  dust. 

Roll,  Shenandoah,  proudly  roll, 

Adown  thy  rocky  glen; 
Above  thee  lies  the  grave  of  one 

Of  Stonewall  Jackson's  men! 
Beneath  the  cedar  and  the  pine, 

In  solitude  austere, 
Unknown,  unnamed,  forgotten  lies 

"A  Georgia  Volunteer." 

"A  Georgia  Volunteer"  was  written  by  Mrs.  Townshend  at 
the  neglected  grave  of  one  who  was  a  member  of  the  12th 
Georgia,  a  regiment  whose  gallantry  was  conspicuous  on  every 
field  where  its  colors  waved,  and  which  won  praise  for  peculiar 
daring,  even  among  the  "foot  cavalry"  of  Jackson. 

By  XARIFFA. 


RICHMOND  ON  THE  JAMES. 

A  soldier  boy  from  Bourbon, 

Lay  gasping  on  the  field, 
When  the  battle  shock  was  over, 

And  the  foe  was  forced  to  yield. 
He  fell,  a  youthful  hero, 

Before  the  foeman's  flames, 
On  a  blood-red  field  near  Richmond — 

Near  Richmond  on  the  James. 

But  one  still  stood  beside  him, 

His  comrade  in  the  fray, 
They  had  been  friends  together 

Through  boyhood's  happy  day; 
And  side  by  side  had  struggled 

On  fields  of  blood  and  flames — 
To  part  that  eve  near  Richmond, 

Near  Richmond  on  the  James. 


110        CULLINGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY. 

He  said,  I  charge  thee,  comrade, 

The  friend  in  days  of  yore, 
Of  the  far,  far-distant  dear  ones, 

That  I  shall  see  no  more, 
Though  scarce  my  lips  can  whisper 

Their  dear  and  well  known  names, 
To  bear  to  them  my  blessing 

From  Richmond  on  the  James. 


Bear  my  good  sword  to  brother — 

This  badge  upon  my  breast 
To  the  young  and  gentle  sister, 

That  I  used  to  love  the  best; 
But  one  lock  from  off  my  forehead 

Give  the  mother  still  that  dreams 
Of  her  soldier  boy  near  Richmond, 

Near  Richmond  on  the  James. 


Oh!  would  that  mother's  arms 

Were  folded  'round  me  now, 
That  her  gentle  hands  could  linger 

One  moment  on  my  brow! 
But  I  know  that  she  is  praying, 

Where  our  blessed  hearth  light  gleams, 
For  her  soldier's  safe  returning 

From  Richmond  on  the  James. 


And  on  my  heart,  dear  comrade, 

Close  lay  those  nut-brown  braids, 
Of  one  that  was  the  fairest 

Of  all  the  village  maids; 
We  were  to  have  been  wedded, 

But  death  the  bridegroom  claims, 
And  she  is  far  that  loves  me 

From  Richmond  on  the  James. 


Why  does  the  pale  face  haunt  her, 

Dear  friend,  that  looks  on  thee? 
Why  is  she  laughing,  singing, 

In  careless,  girlish  glee? 
It  may  be  she  is  joyous, 

And  loves  but  joyous  themes, 
Nor  dreams  not  her  love  lies  bleeding 

Near  Richmond  on  the  James. 


And  though  I  know,  dear  comrade, 

Thoul't  miss  me  for  awhile, 
When  their  faces — all  that  love  thee — 

Again  on  thee  shall  smile; 
But  thou  will't  be  the  foremost 

In  all  their  youthful  games, 
And  I  shall  lie  near  Richmond, 

Near  Richmond  on  the  James. 


CULLINGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY.         Ill 

And  far  from  all  that  love  him, 

That  youthful  soldier  sleeps, 

Unknown  among  the  thousands 

Of  those  his  country  weeps; 
And  no  higher  heart,  nor  braver, 

Than  his  at  sunset  beams, 
Was  laid  that  eve  near  Richmond — 

Near  Richmond  on  the  James. 

The  land  is  filled  with  mourning, 

From  hall  and  cottage  lone; 
We  miss  the  well  known  faces 

That  used  to  greet  our  own, 
And  long  poor  wives  and  mothers 

Shall  weep,  and  titled  dames, 
To  hear  the  name  of  Richmond, 

Of  Richmond  on  the  James. 

By  AMELIA  WBLBY. 
Louisville,  Ky.,  A.  D.  1862. 


THE  WARRIOR'S  STEED. 

A  day  of  wrath  was  that  which  shone 

Upon  Manassas'  plain, 
When  blood  of  Southmen  for  their  homes 

Was  shed  like  drops  of  rain, 
And  warriors  rode  in  fields  of  fire, 

Unclad  in  iron  mail, 
And  fortune  held  the  Southern  host 

Within  her  doubtful  scale. 

Upon  the  field  the  stern  old  Mars 

Had  chosen  for  his  crest, 
Of  Southern  blood  and  Southern  hearts 

The  truest  and  the  best; 
And  grimly  on  his  scarred  old  face 

A  smile  was  seen  to  play, 
To  see  the  boasting  Yankee  race 

Retreat  so  fast  that  day. 

Hurrah!  hurrah!  my  Southern  boys! 

And  swiftly  onward  flew 
A  horseman  to  the  gallant  charge — 

His  words  were  fast  and  few; 
When  o'er  his  head  a  missle  passed — 

A  cruel,  ponderous  shell, 
And  ere  the  cheering  words  were  heard, 

Both  horse  and  rider  fell. 

"Up,  up,  my  steed!"  the  warrior  cried, 

"Both  you  and  I  must  go, 
And  follow  in  their  rapid  flight 

The  fast  retreating  foe;" 
And  true  unto  his  master's  voice. 

The  wounded  charger  tried 
To  rise,  in  spite  of  the  deep  gash 

Within  his  panting  side. 


112         CULLINGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY. 


"Up,  up,  my  steed!"  again  he  cried, 

And  loosed  the  flowing  rein, 
And  back  upon  the  bloody  ground 

The  warrior  sank  again. 
'"Tis  past,  'tis  past!"  he  feebly  cried, 

My  faithful  steed  and  I 
Are  left  upon  the  battlefield, 

Together  here  to  die. 

And  then  the  bleeding  charger  rose, 

His  trembling  limbs  were  weak, 
And  down  he  bent  his  head 

Upon  his  master's  pallid  cheek. 
"Ah,  faithful  friend,  upon  my  breast 

Thy  aching  head  may'st  lie, 
Since  thou  alone  art  left  to  hear 

My  last,  sad  parting  sigh! 

For  thou  hast  borne  me  on  thy  back 

In  my  exulting  pride, 
And  snuffed  the  curling  sulphur  smoke 

Through  the  hot  battle's  tide. 
A  single  word  would  bid  thee  go, 

Or  check  thy  onward  speed; 
Alas!  I  ne'er  shall  meet  again 

My  ever  faithful  steed! 

"My  darling  wife  will  watch  for  us 

Through  eyes  bedimmed  with  tears — 
Even  thou  would'st  be  a  friend  to  her 

Through  coming  bitter  years; 
Ah!  years  of  bitter  sorrowing 

Will  o'er  her  young  heart  pass, 
When  thou  could 'st  stand  beside  our  door, 

And  crop  the  bending  grass. 

"And  crop  the  bending  grass — the  while 

Our  darling  baby  boy 
Would  sit  upon  thy  glossy  back 

And  cheer  thee  on  with  joy; 
'Twould  soothe  her  widowed  heart  to  watch 

Through  summer's  ling'ring  hours, 
For  fear  thy  steel-clad  hoof  might  crush 

Her  favorite  bed  of  flowers. 

"And  then,  a  sad  and  bitter  thought, 

My  noble  steed  might  stand 
With  fretting  foam  upon  his  sides, 

When  curbed  by  stranger's  hand. 
The  barbarous  foe  will  gird  thy  flanks. 

Who  ne'er  was  taught  to  ride; 
For  such  a  prisoner  as  thyself 

Would  swell  a  coward's  pride. 


CULLING^  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY.          113 

"'Tis  well  for  both — my  noble  steed 

Must  with  his  master  go, 
Nor  live  to  bear  upon  his  back 

The  form  of  Northern  foe. 
Farewell!  I  cannot  lift  my  hand 

To  loose  the  tightened  rein, 
Nor  smooth  thy  swelling  neck,  that  thou 

Art  bending  in  thy  pain." 

"But  bend  again,  my  faithful  steed, 

Let  me  but  touch  thy  mane, 
Thy  bright  eye  looks  so  glassy  now — 

There's  blood  upon  thy  rein — 
O,  let  me  feel  thy  panting  breath, 

And  lean  my  throbbing  cheek 
Beside  thine  own" — the  steed  bent  down — 

The  soldier  could  not  speak. 

One  moment  now — the  trembling  steed 

Again  began  to  reel, 
His  quivering  side  was  cleft  in  twain 

By  shafts  of  random  steel; 
And  low  beside  his  master's  head 

He  slowly  stretched  his  form, 
Nor  heeds  the  soldier  or  his  steed 

The  shock  of  battle — storm. 

The  storm  was  o'er — the  victory  won — 

The  stars  shone  pale  and  hot, 
As  if  their  light  were  heated  rays 

From  cannon's  fiery  shot; 
And  sluggishly  the  sable  veil 

Of  night  let  slowly  down, 
And  on  the  sky  the  battle-smoke 

Had  left  a  murky  frown. 

The  breeze  began  its  sweeping  sighs 

O'er  the  uncomplaining  dead, 
And  dewy  tears  from  hallowed  night 

Their  weepings  on  them  shed; 
A  whisper  soft,  like  that  which  glides 

Beneath  the  bending  reed — 
And  then  the  soldier  breathed  his  last 

Beside  his  stiffened  steed. 

Richmond,  March  28,  1862. 

The  above  poem  was  composed  by  Mrs.  V.  E.  W.(McCord) 
Vernon. 

Wednesday  evening,  June  4,  1864,  the  above  was  rendered 
for  the  benefit  of  the  Ladies  Hospital,  Petersburg,  Va. 


114         CULLINGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY. 


THE   RICHT  ABOVE  THE  WRONG. 

In  other  days  our  fathers'  love  was  loyal,  full  and  free, 
For  those  tbey  left  behind  them  in  the  Island  of  the  Sea; 
They  fought  the  battles  of  King  George  and  toasted  him  in 

song, 
For  then  the  right  kept  proudly  down  the  tyranny  of  wrong. 

But  when  the  King's  weak,  willing  slaves,  laid  tax  upon  the 

tea, 

The  western  men  rose  up  and  braved  the  Island  of  the  Sea; 
And  swore  a  fearful  oath  to  God — those  men  of  iron  might, 
That  in  the  end  the  wrong  should  die  and  up  should  go  the 

right. 

The  King  sent  over  hireling  hosts — British,  Hessian,  Scott — 

And  swore  in  turn  those  western  men,  when  captured,  shall  be 
shot. 

While  Chatham  spoke  with  earnest  tongue  against  the  hire 
ling  throng, 

And  sadly  saw  the  right  go  down,  and  place  give  to  the  wrong. 

But  God  was  on  the  righteous  side,  and  Gideon's  sword  was 

out, 
With  clash  of  steel  and  rattling  drum,  and  freemen's  thunder 

shout. 
And  crimson  torrents  drenched  the  land  through  that  long, 

stormy  fight, 
But  in  the  end  the  wrong,  hurrah  !  was  beaten  by  the  right. 

And  when  again  the  foeman  came,  from  out  the  Northern  Sea, 

To  desolate  our  smiling  land  and  subjugate  the  free; 

Our  fathers  rushed  to  drive  them  back  with  rifles  keen  and 

long, 
And   swore  a  mighty  oath — the  right  should   subjugate  the 

wrong. 

And  while  the  world  was  looking  on,  the  strife  uncertain  grew, 

But  soon  aloft  rose  up  our  stars,  amid  a  field  of  blue. 

For  Jackson  fought  on  red  Chalmette  and  won  the  glorious 

fight; 
And  then  the  wrong  went  down,  hurrah!  and  triumph  crowned 

the  right. 

The  day  has  come  again,  when  men  who  love  the  beauteous 
South, 

To  speak  again,  if  need  be,  for  the  right,  though  by  the  can 
non's  mouth; 

For  foes  accursed  of  God  and  man,  with  lying  speech  and  song, 

Would  bind,  imprison,  hang  the  right,  and  deify  the  wrong. 

But  canting  knave  of  pen  and  sword,  nor  sanctimonious  fool, 
Shall  never  win  this  Southern  land  to  cripple,  bind  and  rule; 
We'll  muster  on  each  bloody  plain  thick  as  the  stars  of  night, 
And,  through  the  help  of  God,  the  wrong  shall  perish  by  the 
right. 

New  Orleans  "  True  Delta." 


C ULLINGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY.         115 

SHE   SAVED   HER   BACON. 

Just  before  Grierson  made  his  way  to  West  Point,  consider 
able  alarm  preceded  him  throughout  the  country  where  he  was 
expected  to  travel,  and  every  person  did  all  he  could  to  save 
his  valuables  and  movable  property,  to  prevent  their  being 
stolen.  A  certain  old  lady  who  resides  only  a  short  distance 
from  her  house,  was  in  great  distress  as  to  what  disposition 
she  should  make  of  her  bacon,  as  she  had  a  quantity  in  her 
smoke  house.  Everybody  about  the  place  were  hiding  away 
their  valuables  but  the  old  lady,  who  stood  ringing  her  hands 
and  crying:  "  My  conscience,  bless  my  soul,  where  on  the  face 
of  the  earth  can  I  hide  my  meat  from  these  thieving 
Yankees  ?"  The  Yankees  hove  in  sight.  On  the  instant  a 
brilliant  idea  struck  the  old  lady,  and  she  sang  out  to  her  son : 
"  You,  Jeems,  come  here  and  help  me  throw  this  meat  into  the 
yard."  And  at  it  they  went,  spreading  the  yard  with  the 
bacon.  In  a  few  moments  the  Yankees  made  their  appear 
ance  and  dashed  into  the  yard.  The  first  thing  they  saw,  of 
course,  was  the  meat.  "  Ah  ! "  exclaimed  one,  "  you  have  got 
plenty  of  meat  here;  the  very  thing  we  want.  The  old  lady 
being  close  by  and  listening  replied :  "  Yes,  we  have  got 
plenty  of  meat  here,  sich  as  this.  Yer  can  have  it  and  wel 
come,  for  I  sha't  touch  a  mouthful  of  it  long  as  I  live,  for  this 
mornin'  the  durned  rebel  soldiers  come  here  and  took  every 
bit  of  my  meat  and  done  something  with  it,  and  flung  it  in  the 
yard,  and  there  it  can  lay  till  it  rots  before  I  eat  it.  The 
Yankees  took  the  hint;  thought  it  was  poisoned,  and  she 
saved  her  bacon. — Mobile  Tribune. 


A   CONFEDERATE    LETTER. 

(Original  Preserved.) 
Camp  near  Petersburg,  December  15,  1864. 

Miss—  — : 

Miss  i  take  the  pleasure  with  the  bold  priviledge  to  address 
a  few  lines  in  frendship  in  hops  thes  few  lines  may  reach  you 
in  due  time,  and  find  you  in  the  hights  of  life,  an  enjoying  the 
best  of  privilidges  of  Human  nature,  this  leaves  me  in  the 
Best  of  helth,  but  sick  at  the  hart  on  leving  you,  and  your  kind 
fechers,  witch  lookes  so  mild  in  my  presants.  Dear  Miss,  i 
came  though  the  city  on  yesterday,  an  I  understood  that  you 
was  a  having  a  gay,  an  a  Happy  time,  if  i  had  of  had  the 
privilidge  of  stoping,  i  am  shorley  woud  of  staid  in  the  city, 
to  of  come  to  the  consert,  but  having  no  one  to  come  with  me. 
and  not  acquainted  with  know  young  lady  to  abscort  with  me. 
i  left  for  my  command,  an  on  arriving  to  camps  in  due  time, 


116         CULLINGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY. 

i  comemence  to  study  the  matter  over,  an  to  think  what  a 
blockhead  i  wose  to  think  i  coudint  go  by  myself,  so  i  come 
to  the  conclusion  to  have  a  companion  to  go  with  me.  i  have 
come  to  the  conclusion  to  ask  you  if  you  give  me  the  privilidg 
of  conversing  with  you  on  the  subject  of  matrimony,  if  you 
have  now  you  can  let  me  know,  if  you  do  you  can  give  me 
your  reason,  but  i  am  in  hops  it  won't  be  know,  as  I  think  of 
you  every  moment  of  my  life  so  as  i  am  not  capible  yeat,  i 
close  by  saying  you  must  right  at  all  Hassard,  and  direct  to 

Johny.  G.  T 1  of  Co.  F,  12th  Batt, Brigade,  Gordon 

Davision,  Petersburg,  Va.     so  as  ever  i  remain  your 

kind  Frend,  an 

obedience  servent 
Johny  G.  T 1. 

What  State  will  claim  him  ?    He  seemed  to  be  journeying 
toward  the  state  of  matrimony. 


RECRUITING    IN    EUROPE. 

We  copy  the  following  from  the  Savannah  Republican, 
A.  D.  1863: 

"  We  have  before  us  proof  conclusive  that  our  enemy,  ut 
terly  despairing  of  their  ability  to  conquer  us,  have,  at  this 
time,  agents  and  lecturers  in  almost  every  country  in  Europe, 
who  by  lying  misrepresentations  and  the  meanest  duplicity, 
united  with  pledges  at  the  enormity  of  which  all  Christendom 
must  shudder.  It  is  in  the  form  of  a  poster,  or  hand-bill, 
which  is  now  being  circulated  throughout  Great  Britain,  in 
aid  of  such  lecturers  as  Beecher  &  Co,  and  a  copy  of  which 
has  just  been  received  from  a  friend  through  the  blockade. 
We  present  it  to  the  world  as  a  burning  witness  against  a 
God-forsaken  people.  They  will  doubtless  denounce  it  as  a 
forgery,  but  we  are  assured  upon  authority  beyond  all  ques 
tion  that  the  copy  sent  us  and  published  is  one  of  thousands 
that  are  floating  over  the  Kingdom  of  Great  Britain,  and,  what 
is  worse,  are  winked  at  by  the  British  Government.  Here  is 
the  document: 
To  gallant  Irishmen,  Germans,  and  others: 

The  war  contractors  of  New  York,  Boston  and  Philadelphia, 
are  in  want  of  a  few  thousand  enterprising  young  men  to  join 
the  glorious  army  of  the  United  States.  The  profits  of  the 
business  are  so  large  that  the  country  can  afford  to  pay  hand 
somely  all  who  will  speedily  enter  their  noble  service.  Camp 
life  in  America  is  remarkably  salubrious  and  enjoyable,  and 
offers  immense  attractions  to  the  oppressed  populations  of 
Europe.  The  troops  will  have  free  license  while  occupying 


CULLINGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY.         117 

the  enemy's  country,  and  the  estates  and  property  of  the  van 
quished  "  rebels  "  will  be  divided  by  a  grateful  nation  among 
its  heroic  defenders.  For  further  particulars  apply  to  the 
Contractors'  Lecturers  now  on  the  mission  to  Britain,  and  to 
Messrs  John  Bright  and  W.  E.  Forster,  Ranter's  Hall,  London. 
New  York,  September  1,  1863. 


"TRUE  TO  THE  GRAY." 

I  cannot  listen  to  your  words, 

The  land  is  long  and  wide; 
Go  seek  some  happy  Northern  girl 

To  be  your  loving  bride. 

My  brothers  they  were  soldiers — 

The  youngest  of  the  three 
Was  slain  while  fighting  by  the  side 

Of  gallant  Fitzhugh  Lee. 

They  left  his  body  on  the  field, 

(Your  side  the  day  had  won), 
A  soldier  spurned  him  with  his  foot — 

You  might  have  been  the  one. 

My  lover  was  a  soldier, 

He  belonged  to  Gordon's  band; 
A  sabre  pierced  his  gallant  heart, 

Yours  might  have  been  the  hand. 

He  reeled  and  fell,  but  was  not  dead, 

A  horseman  spurred  his  steed 
And  trampled  on  the  dying  brain, 

You  may  have  done  the  deed. 

I  hold  no  hatred  in  my  heart, 

No  cold,  unrighteous  pride, 
For  many  a  gallant  soldier  fought 

Upon  the  other  side. 

But  still  I  cannot  kiss  the  hand 

That  smote  my  country  sore, 
Nor  love  the  feet  that  trampled  down 

The  colors  that  she  bore. 

Between  my  heart  and  yours  there  rolls 

A  deep  and  crimson  tide — 
My  brother's  and  my  lover's  blood 

Forbids  me  be  your  bride. 

The  girls  who  love  the  boys  in  Gray, 

The  girls  to  country  true, 
May  ne'er  in  wedlock  give  their  hand 

To  those  who  wore  the  "Blue." 

A.  D.  1865.  By  PEARL  RIVERS. 


118          CULLING S  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY. 


MOTHER  WOULD  COMFORT  ME. 

Wounded  and  sorrowful,  far  from  my  home, 
Sick,  among  strangers,  uncared  for,  unknown; 
Even  the  birds  that  used  sweetly  to  sing, 
Are  silent,  and  swiftly  have  taken  the  wing. 
No  one  but  mother  can  cheer  me  to-day; 
No  one  for  me  could  so  fervently  pray; 
None  to  console  me,  no  kind  friends  are  near, 
Mother  would  comfort  me,  if  she  were  here. 

Chorus: 

Gently  her  hand  o'er  my  forehead  she'd  press, 
Trying  to  free  me  from  pain  and  distress; 
Kindly  she'd  say  to  me,  "Be  of  good  cheer, 
Mother  will  comfort  you,  mother  is  here!" 

If  she  were  with  me  I  soon  would  forget 
My  pain  and  my  sorrow — no  more  would  I  fret; 
One  kiss  from  her  lips,  or  one  look  from  her  eye 
Would  make  me  contented  and  willing  to  die. 
Gently  her  hand  o'er  my  forehead  she'd  press, 
Trying  to  free  me  from  pain  and  distress; 
Kindly  she'd  say  to  me,  "  Be  of  good  cheer," 
Mother  will  comfort  you,  mother  is  here." 
Chorus,  etc. 

Cheerfully,  faithfully,  mother  would  stay 
Always  beside  me,  by  night  and  by  day; 
If  I  should  murmur,  or  wish  to  complain, 
Her  gentle  voice  would  soon  calm  me  again, 
Sweetly  a  mother's  love  shines  like  a  star, 
Brightest  in  darkness,  when  daylight's  afar; 
In  clouds  or  in  sunshine,  pleasure  or  pain, 
Mother's  affection  is  ever  the  same. 
Chorus,  etc. 


CIVILE  BELLUM— BROTHER  AGAINST  BROTHER. 

"  In  this  fearful  struggle  between  North  and  South  there  are 
hundreds  of  cases  in  which  fathers  are  arrayed  against  sons, 
brothers  against  brothers." 

Rifleman  shoot  me  a  fancy  shot 

Straight  at  the  heart  of  yon  prowling  vidette; 
Ring  me  a  ball  on  the  glittering  spot 

That  shines  on  his  breast  like  an  aumlet! 

Ah!  Captain,  here  goes  for  a  fine  drawn  bead; 

There's  music  around  when  my  barrel's  in  tune, 
Crack  went  the  rifle,  the  messenger  sped 

And  dead  from  his  horse  fell  the  singing  dragoon. 

Now,  rifleman  steal  "through  the  bushes  and  snatch 

From  your  victim  some  trinket  to  handsel  first  blood — 

A  button,  a  loop,  or  that  luminous  patch 

That  gleams  in  the  moon  like  a  diamond  stud. 


CULLINGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY.        119 

Oh,  Captain,  I  staggered  and  sank  in  my  track, 
When  I  gazed  on  the  face  of  the  fallen  vidette, 

For  he  looked  so  like  you  as  he  lay  on  his  back 
That  my  heart  rose  upon  me  and  masters  me  yet. 

But  I  snatched  off  the  trinket,  this  locket  of  gold, 
An  inch  from  the  centre  my  lead  broke  is  way — 

Scarce  grazing  the  picture  so  fair  to  behold 
Of  a  beautiful  lady  in  bridal  array. 

Ha,  rifleman,  fling  me  the  locket — 'tis  she, 

My  brother's  young  bride — and  the  fallen  dragoon 

Was  her  husband — hush  soldier!  'twas  Heaven's  decree — 
We  must  bury  him  there  by  the  light  of  the  moon. 

But  hark,  the  far  bugles  their  warning  unite, 

War  is  a  virtue — and  weakness  a  sin. 
There's  a  lurking  and  loping  around  us  to-night, 
Load  again  rifleman — keep  your  hand  in. 

— From  the  once  United  States 
London  "  Once  a  Week." 


THE  OLD  GRAY  COAT. 

Worn  by  Major  Giles  B.  Cooke,  of  Gen.  R.  E.  Lee's  Staff, 
and  given,  after  the  surrender,  to  his  nephew,  Rev.  John  K. 
White,  author  of  these  lines. 

In  the  garret  it  was  resting, 

In  the  bottom  of  a  trunk; 
And  for  years  it  had  been  hidden, 

In  the  deepest  slumber  sunk. 

As  I  raised  it  slowly,  gently, 

Bitter  tears  rushed  to  my  eyes, 
For  it  brought  back  recollection, 

Which,  though  sleeping,  never  dies. 

As  I  pressed  my  lips  upon  it, 

Soft  a  voice  within  it  spoke; 
It  at  first  seemed  misty,  dreamy, 

But  at  last  it  full  awoke. 

"Where  and  why,  I  pray  you  tell  me, 

Am  I  resting  quiet  now? 
And  the  way  in  which  I  came  here, 

Will  you  please  inform  me  how?" 

"You  were  placed  here  by  your  master, 

When  he  found  no  use  for  you." 
"And  why,  I'd  have  you  tell  me, 

Could  I  nothing  further  do? 


120          CULLING S  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY. 

"Did  I  not  through  toilsome  marches 

Ever  stay  close  by  his  side? 
Did  I  not  the  scorching  sunshine 

And  the  biting  blast  abide? 

"Did  I  ever  shrink  from  bullets? 

Did  I  ever  seem  to  fear, 
When  the  bayonets  clashed  around  me, 

Or  the  bomb  shells  burst  so  near  ? 

"Was  I  not  a  faithful  servant? 

Did  I  not  my  duty  well? 
Why,  then,  am  I  thus  discarded? 

I  entreat  you  now  to  tell." 

"Tis  because  the  war  is  over; 

Yes,  the  fighting  all  is  done; 
For  the  Northern  armies  conquered; 

And  the  country  now  is  one." 

"Well,  but  where  are  Lee  and  Jackson, 
With  their  armies  strong  and  brave?" 

"They  have  fought  their  final  battle, 
They  are  sleeping  in  the  grave." 

"But  not  all,  not  all  most  surely, 

Are  there  not  a  number  left, 
Who  have  not  with  courage  parted, 

And  are  not  of  honor  'reft? 


Cannot  these,  with  Southern  valor, 
Sweep  the  land  from  sea  to  sea, 

And  from  every  hated  foeman 
Thus  the  Southern  nation  free?" 


"But  the  South  is  not  a  nation, 
And  the  war  is  long  since  o'er; 

And  I  tell  you  peace  is  reigning 

Through  the  land  from  shore  to  shore.' 

"Did  my  master  e'er  surrender? 

Sure  he  died  upon  the  field: 
For  I  know  that  he  would  never 

For  a  moment  deign  to  yield." 

"But  he  did  indeed  surrender, 
And  he  preaches  now  the  Word; 

He's  an  active,  earnest  worker 
In  the  vineyard  of  the  Lord." 


CULLINGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY.          121 

Man's  lofty  spirit  is  revealed  in  the  bard. — Goethe. 
DREAMING  IN  THE  TRENCHES. 

By  WILLIAM  G.  McCABE. 

William  Gordon  McCabe,  the  Southern  poet  and  educator, 
was  born  near  Richmond,  Va.,  August  4,  1841.  A  son  of  Rev. 
Dr.  John  Collins  McCabe,  poet  and  antiquarian,  and  Sophia 
Gordon  Taylor,  granddaughter  of  George  Taylor,  signer  of  the 
Declaration  of  Independence,  he  was  educated  at  the  Univer 
sity  of  Virginia,  entered  the  Confederate  army  in  1861,  and 
served  through  the  civil  war,  after  which  he  established  the 
University  School  at  Petersburg,  and  later  removed  to  Rich 
mond.  In  1867  he  married  Jennie  Pleasants  Harrison  Os- 
borne.  While  in  the  army  he  contributed  many  poems  to  Sou 
thern  magazines.  He  is  the  author  of  "  The  Defense  of  Peters 
burg  ''  (1876),  "Ballads  of  Battle  and  Bravery"  (1870),  and 
of  latin  school  books,  translations,  etc.  The  following  poem 
was  written  in  1864,  in  the  Petersburg  trenches: 

I  picture  her  there  in  the  quaint  old  room, 
Where  the  fading  fire-light  starts  and  falls, 

Alone  in  the  twilight's  tender  gloom 
With  the  shadows  that  dance  on  the  dim-lit  walls 

Alone,  while  those  faces  look  silently  down 
From  their  antique  frames  in  a  grim  repose — 

Slight  scholarly  Ralph  in  his  Oxford  gown, 
And  staunch  Sir  Alan,  who  died  for  Montrose. 

There  are  gallants  gay  in  crimson  and  gold, 
There  are  smiling  beauties  with  powdered  hair, 

But  she  sits  there,  fairer  a  thousandfold, 
Leaning  dreamily  back  in  her  low  armchair. 

And  the  roseate  shadows  of  fading  light, 
Softly  clear,  steal  over  the  sweet  young  face, 

Where  a  woman's  tenderness  blends  to-night 
With  the  guileless  pride  of  a  haughty  race. 

Her  hands  lie  clasped  in  a  listless  way 

On  the  old  romance — which  she  holds  on  her  knee — 
Of  Tristram,  the  bravest  of  knights  in  the  fray, 

And  Iseult,  who  waits  by  the  sounding  sea. 

And  her  proud,  dark  eyes  wear  a  softened  look 

As  she  watches  the  dying  embers  fall — 
Perhaps  she  dreams  of  the  knight  in  the  book, 

Perhaps  of  the  pictures  that  smile  on  the  wall. 

What  fancies,  I  wonder,  are  thronging  her  brain — 
For  her  cheeks  flush  warm  with  a  crimson  glow! 

Perhaps — ah!  me,  how  foolish  and  vain! 
But  I'd  give  my  life  to  believe  it  so! 

Well,  whether  I  ever  march  home  again 

To  offer  my  love  and  a  stainless  name, 
Or  whether  I  die  at  the  head  of  my  men — 

I'll  be  true  to  the  end  all  the  same. 


122         CULLINGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY. 

THE  PRINTERS  OF  VIRGINIA  TO  "OLD  ABE." 

(By  Harry  C.  Treakle.) 
Though  we're  exempt,  we've  not  the  metal 

To  keep  in  when  duty  calls; 
But  onward  we  will  press,  to  settle 

This  knotty  case,  with  leaden  balls; 
For  our  dear  old  mother  State,  the  fount 

From  which  we  each  our  life  did  take, 
Is  locked  up  by  a  vandal  horde, 

And  the  honor  of  the  craft's  at  stake. 

For  lean-faced  Lincoln's  after  us, 

His  slim  shanks  moving  like  a  scout, 
But  long  before  his  job  is  done 

He'll  find  that  all  his  quads  are  out. 
For  with  Lee  our  head-line — worthy  guide — 

We  galley  slaves  will  never  be, 
But  still  press  onward,  by  his  side, 

For  that  fat  take — sweet  liberty! 

Soon  Abe  will  find  what  he's  about, 

T'will  cost  him  such  a  pile  of  rocks, 
Before  his  cherished  work  is  out 

He'll  have  no  sorts  in  any  box! 
For  his  bank  is  now  so  very  low 

He  scarce  can  chase  up  quoins  to  pay 
The  hired  scum,  the  foreign  foe, 

Who  comes  to  steal  our  rights  away. 

And  while  a  foe  is  in  the  field, 

Our  hands  still  steady,  our  leaders  co.ol, 
Death  we'll  embrace  before  we'll  yield, 

But  by  God's  help  we'll  stick  and  rule.' 
And  when  in  after  years  to  come 

Our  history's  read  by  youth  and  sage, 
They'll  make  a  side  note  of  well  done 

On  this,  our  volume's  brightest  page. 
Norfolk,  Va.,  April  4,  1862. 

THE  DESPOT'S  SONG. 

(By  "Ole  Secesh.") 

With  a  beard  that  was  filthy  and  red, 
Jis  mouth  with  tobacco  bespread, 
Abe  Lincoln  sat  in  the  gay  "White  House" 
A  wishing  that  he  was  dead. 
Snear!  snear!  snear! 
'Till  his  tongue  was  blistered  o'er, 
Then  in  a  voice  not  very  strong, 
He  slowly  whined  the  despot's  song. 

Lie!  lie!  lie!  "I've  lied  like  the  very  deuce; 
Lie!  lie!  lie!  as  long  as  lies  were  of  use. 
But  now  that  lies  no  longer  pay, 
For  when  I  the  truth  would  say 
My  tongue  with  lies  will  burn. 


CULLINGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY          123 

Drink!  drink!  drink!  'till  my  head  feels  very  queer, 
Drink!  drink!  drink!  'till  I  get  rid  of  all  fear, 
Brandy  and  whiskey  and  gin, 

Sherry,  champagne  and  pop — 
I  tipple,  I  guzzle — I  suck  'em  all  in! 

'Till  down,  dead  drunk  I  drop. 

Think!  think!  think!  'till  my  head  is  very  sore, 
Think!  think!  think!  'till  I  could  not  think  any  more, 
And  its  oh!  to  be  splitting  of  rails 

Back  in  my  Illinois  hut — 
For  now  that  evrything  fails, 

I  would  of  my  office  be  shut. 


THE  SHENANDOAH  SUFFERERS. 

"Widow  and  Southern  maid 

Long  shall  lament  our  raid." — Scott. 

The  Shenandoah  Valley,  the  garden  of  earth, 
Where  beauty  and  plenty  sprang  joyously  forth 
Now  sad  desolation  stalks  over  the  scene, 
And  woe  marks  the  spot  where  the  spoiler  hath  been. 

The  moan  of  the  grandsire,  the  child's  piteous  wail, 
Have  been  borne  far  and  wide  by  the  wild  winter's  gale; 
With  horror  they  gazed  on  their  homes  wrapped  in  flames, 
And  a  shriek  of  despair  uttered  Sheridan's  name. 

Oh,  woman!  poor  woman!  how  sad  was  thy  lot! 
The  wrongs  thou  hast  suffered  can  ne'er  be  forgot; 
Thy  roof-tree  cut  down,  and  thy  best  beloved  slain — 
And  thy  pleadings  for  "mercy"  were  all  made  in  vain. 

The  mother  and  infant  together  have  died, 

In  famine  and  nakedness,  laid  side  by  side; 

Saw  ye  not  the  dense  smoke  of  the  great  funeral  pyre, 

When  the  all  of  their  life  was  burned  up  in  the  fire? 

So  through  the  work  of  destruction  and  woe 
Was  wrought  by  the  hand  of  the  merciless  foe, 
E'en  the  sweet-singing  birds  flew  away  for  their  food, 
Or  perished  in  flames  with  their  poor  little  brood. 

And  is  this  indeed  such  a  barbarous  age? 
A  foul  blot  is  stamped  upon  history's  page: 
Oh,  Jesus!  Oh,  Saviour!  appear  with  thine  aid, 
And  pJead  for  the  victims  of  Sheridan's  raid. 
A.  D.  1864.  A  VOICE  PROM  NEW  ENGLAND. 


HISTORICAL  FACT. 

"A  crow  passing  over  the  Valley  of  Virginia  must  carry  his 
rations  on  his  back." 
186—.  SHERIDAN  AND  HIS  BRAVES. 


124         CULLINGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY. 


VIRGINIA  IN  1863. 

Child.— See  that  blue  line,  Mother, 

Coming  'round  the  hill, 
Winding  through  the  meadow — 

Look!  the  road  they  fill. 
Hear  them  yelling,  Mother! 

See!  a  flag  is  there — 
Oh,  you  are  frightened,  Mother, 

Tell  me  what  they  are? 

Mother. — The  Yankees,  child,  are  coming, 

See  them!  now  so  near — 
Oh  Heaven,  relieve  my  sorrow, 

Calm  my  grief  and  fear; 
Oh,  let  Thine  arm  around  me 

Strengthen  my  poor  heart, 
Restrain  the  rising  tear, 

And  nerve  me  for  my  part. 

Child. — Oh,  Mother,  they  are  coming, 

Quick!  Mother,  let  us  hide! 
They'll  soon  be  here  to  kill  us, 

Oh,  keep  me  by  your  side; 
If  father  could  be  here. 

And  brother — but  they're  gone, 
And  we  are  left  to  die, 

To  die  here  all  alone. 

Mother. — Thy  father  and  thy  brother,  child, 

Are  fighting  for  us  now, 
Or  on  some  distant  battlefield 
Perchance  are  lying  low. 

Child. — Oh,  Mother,  see  the  flames 

Are  rising  all  around! 
Hear  the  crackling  fire! 

See!  they  burn  the  town! 
Oh,  Mother,  now  they're  coming, 

With  glaring  torch,  this  way 
To  burn  our  pretty  home; 

Oh,  Mother,  shall  we  stay? 

Mother. — Be  still,  my  child,  and  wait — 

God's  will  alone  be  done; 
He  has  a  peaceful  home 

When  this  poor  race  is  run. 
He  has  a  peaceful  home 

Prepared  for  you  and  me, 
Where  war  no  more  shall  come, 

Nor  death  shall  ever  be. 

Child. — Dear  Mother,  will  God  take  us, 
Take  us  up  there  to-night, 

From  all  these  wicked  Yankees, 
Who  come  down  here  to  fight? 

Oh,  Mother,  beg  the  Captain: 
"Please  not  to  burn  our  home," 


CULLINGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY.          125 

Oh,  beg  him  to  spare  and  save  us, 

'Till  father  can  return — 
Tell  him  about  the  God  on  high; 

Who  watches  all  we  do, 
And  if  he's  kind  to  you  and  I, 

Will  love  and  keep  him,  too. 

Mother. — Ah,  child,  the  Captain  cannot  hear, 

Though  cries  of  anguish  start, 
Not  childhood's  grief  nor  woman's  tears 

E'er  melt  his  iron  heart, 
For  many  a  widowed  mother 

Has  prayed  him  but  to  spare 
A  morsel  for  her  starving  child; 

He  would  not  heed  her  prayer — 
And  many  a  darling  boy 

From  sick  bed  he  has  torn. 
And  sent  far  off  to  prison 

To  starve  and  die  alone. 
Oh,  many  a  torch  he's  lighted, 

The  orphan's  home  to  burn, 
And  'neath  the  flag  "United," 

Fire,  death  and  tears  hath  strewn. 
All  up  and  down  the  Valley 

Of  our  fair  Virginia  home, 
There  comes  one  cry  of  anguish 

Before  the  Father's  throne. 
That  Father,  He  will  hear  us, 

And  soothe  us  in  our  woe, 
That  Father,  He  will  hear  us, 

But  the  Captain,  child — ah  no! 

Child. — Mother,  put  your  arm  around  me, 

For  now  we  will  not  try 
To  move  the  wicked  Captain's  heart, 
But  in  the  flames  we'll  die. 

ANONYMOUS. 


COMMERCIAL    REPORT— STARVATION    TIME. 

By  Dounans  &  Johnston,  Commission  Merchants. 

Petersburg,  January  25,  1864. 

Tobacco. — The  market  opened  this  week  with  sales  of  good, 
dark  Leaf  at  high  figures,  say  80  to  110.  In  Lugs  and  common 
Leaf  there  is  no  change  in  price  and  not  much  demand,  but 
good,  dark  Tobacco  wanted  at  high  prices. 

Flour. — The  market  is  very  firm  at  $190  to  $200  per  barrel, 
with  very  little  here. 

Molasses. — We  note  sales  of  home-made  at  $22,  and  now 
held  at  $25  per  gallon. 

Butter. — Market  firm  at  $6  per  pound. 

Lard. — But  little  here,  and  held  at  $4  per  pound. 

Tea. — None  in  market  and  much  wanted. 


126         CULLINGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY. 

Sugar. — Market  up  to  $4  per  pound  and  firm. 
Pork. — In  demand  at  $2.50  per  pound  and  wanted. 
Corn  Meal. — We  quote  at  $16  per  bushel. 
Cotton. — $1.60  and  $1.65  per  pound. 

Peas  and  Beans. — Active  demand  at  $25  for  Peas  and  $30  for 
Beans,  per  bushel. 

Wheat. — None  arriving;  prime  at  $25  per  bushel. 
Bacon. — Small  quantity  at  $3.50  per  pound. 
Iron. — At  $2  per  pound. 
Apple  Brandy. — From  $50  to  $60  per  gallon. 
Salt. — At  40  cents  to  50  cents  per  pound. 


WHY  SHOULD  THE  SOUTH  REJOICE? 

Rejoice  for  what?  For  fields  destroyed,  for  homes  in  ashes 

laid? 

For  maiden  at  the  altar  slain — victim  of  fiendish  raid? 
For  blasted  hopes,  for  ruined  cause,  for  Davis  in  his  cell? 
f  For  hecatombs  of  heroes,  who  in  front  of  battle  fell? 

>. . 

y  Rejoice  for  what?  That  Jackjsjojils_j£pjae*-  that  Stuart'1^  in  his 

grave? 
Their  precious  blood  was  freely  shed,  our  much  loved  land  to 

save. 

*^7  The  brave  young  dead  of  Hollywood,  could  we  but  hear  their 

ft*  voice, 

*~  Would  cry  from  out  their  graves  to  us  "Speak  not  the  word 

f^T  rejoice!" 

, 

The  Conquered  Banner,  draped  and  furled,  accusingly  would 

say: 

"Rejoice  not  that  my  starry  cross  no  more  shall  see  the  day, 
I  flashed  o'er  many  a  battlefield,  by  victory  oft  was  crowned, 
But  the  gallant  boys  that  bore  me  high  now  sleep  in  hallowed 

ground. 

On  Chicamauga's  heights  I  waved;  on  Shiloh's  bloody  plain; 
But  never  has  dishonor's  blight  left  on  my  folds  a  stain; 
My  stars  are  pale,  my  fiery  cross  is  dim  with  blood  of  braves, 
Then  let  no  wassail    shout   be   heard   this    day   above   their 
graves. 

Let  them  sleep  on;   we  mourn  their  loss  in  sadness  and  in 

gloom, 

We  will  not  join  the  revellers  that  sport  above  their  tomb; 
The  orphan's  cry,  the  widow's  wail,  still  heard  on  every  hand, 
Would  drown  the  loudest  shouts  of  joy  in  this  our  sorrowing 

land. 

Richmond,  Va.,  July  4,  1866.  By  A.  MOISB,  JR. 


CULLING S  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY.         127 

The  following  lines  found  written  on  the  back  of  a  flve-hun- 
dred-dollar  Confedrate  note,  are  too  good  to  be  lost: 

VANISHED  HOPES. 

Representing  nothing  on  earth  now, 

And  nought  in  the  water  below  it, 
As  a  pledge  of  the  nation  that's  dead  and  gone, 

Keep  it,  dear  friend,  and  show  it. 


Show  it  to  those  who  will  lend  an  ear 
To  the  tale  this  paper  can  tell. 

Of  Liberty  born,  of  the  patriot's  dream, 
Of  the  storm-cradled  nation  that  fell. 


Too  poor  to  possess  the  precious  ore, 
And  too  much  of  a  stranger  to  borrow, 

We  issued  to-day  a  promise  to  pay, 
And  hoped  to  redeem  on  the  morrow. 


The  days  rolled  on  and  the  weeks  became  year? 

But  our  coffers  were  empty  still; 
Coin  was  so  rare  that  the  Treasury  quaked 

If  a  dollar  should  drop  in  the  till. 


But  the  faith  that  was  in  us  was  strong  indeed, 

And  our  poverty  well  discerned; 
And  these  little  checks  represented  the  pay 

That  our  suffering  volunteers  earned. 

We  knew  it  had  hardly  a  value  in  gold, 
Yet  as  gold  our  soldiers  received  it; 

It  gazed  in  our  eyes  with  a  promise  to  pay, 
And  each  patriot  soldier  believed  it. 

But  our  boys  thought  little  of  price  or  pay, 

Or  bills  that  were  overdue; 
We  knew  if  it  bought  us  bread  to-day 

'Twas  the  best  our  poor  country  could  do. 


Keep  it,  it  tells  our  history  over, 

From  the  birth  of  its  dream  to  the  last; 

Modest  and  born  of  the  angel  Hope, 
Like  the  hope  of  success  it  passed. 


128          CULLINGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY. 

OUR  SOUTHERN   LAND. 

(Patria  Dolorosa.) 

The  mountains  lift  aloft  their  hoary  peaks, 

The  rivers  to  the  ocean  proudly  run, 
And  ocean  to  the  shore  its  passion  speaks 

Where  all  the  wide  land  laughs  beneath  a  golden  sun. 

Here  are  fair  valleys  and  the  fruitful  plains, 

And  broad  savannahs  basking  in  the  morn, 
Old  forests,  where  eternal  shadow  reigns, 

And  gardens  that  the  lily  and  the  rose  adorn. 

Yet  though  the  rivers  flow  and  valleys  bloom, 

Though  mountains  rise  and  skies  shine  bright  above, 

Rejoicing  nature  ne'er  can  lift  the  gloom 

That  hangeth  like  a  pall  upon  the  land  we  love! 

Lo!  hidden  in  her  forests,  dim  and  drear, 

Our  melancholy  Mother  sits  and  keeps 
The  folded  banner  and  the  broken  spear 

Fast  locked  within  her  arms,  and  hopeless  o'er  them  weeps. 

Then  like  the  sudden  rising  of  the  wind 

O'er  desolate  wastes  betwen  the  bursts  of  rain, 

So  do  her  heavy  woes  her  voice  unbind, 
And  her  despairing  heart  utters  its  grief  again. 

"Oh,  come  and  sit  with  me!  I  am  o'ershadowed 
By  wings  of  angels  weeping  from  the  skies! 

Here  do  I  dwell  in  this  extreme  abode 
Where  every  anguish  comes,  but  shame!"  she  cries. 

"The  siren,  Hope,  flattered  my  eager  heart 
In  that  fair  morn  when  first  I  sprang  to  life, 

Up  rose  my  war-like  sons,  quick  to  depart; 

Bravely  they  fought  and  died  in  th'  unequal  strife. 

When  went  that  sound  of  battle  through  the  land 
The  nations  stood  aloof,  listening  the  tramp 

Of  hurrying  feet  along  the  Southern  strand, 
And  far  across  the  waves  they  watched  my  flag  and  camp. 

Nations  were  dumb!  Never  a  heart  did  beat 
In  generous  sympathy.     For  four  dread  years 

In  hunger  and  in  pain,  in  cold  and  heat, 

My   warriors   marched   with   blood   in   front — behind   them 
tears. 

Their  tramp  is  hushed,  but  its  echo  evermore 
Is  sounding  through  the  past  a  march  sublime, 

Oh!  fold  them  in  the  flag  they  proudly  bore, 

Those  brave,  devoted  men,  whose  fame  is  of  all  time. 


CULLINGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY.         129 


In  sunny  vales  and  'neath  the  forest  shade, 

On  river  banks  and  mountains  lie  the  slain, 
Who  shall  record  the  sacrifices  they  made? 

Oh!  countless,  nameless  graves!  Oh!  life  bestowed  in  vain! 


Fair  are  the  skies  and  fair  the  bloomy  dales, 
The  rivers  and  the  hills,  the  woody  shore, 

The  opening  roses  swinging  in  the  gales, 
And  ever  fertile  plains — but  me  these  please  no  more. 


There  cries  a  wailing  voice  upon  the  breeze, 
The  roses  bloom  for  martyrs  in  the  grave, 

The  gales  shall  drive  the  ships  upon  the  seas 
No  more,  no  more  unfurl  thy  banner  o'er  the  brave! 


My  gray-haired  Chief,  within  his  dungeon  walls, 
Waits  for  a  Justice,  that  is  drugged  to  sleep, 

Rouse  her  ere  yet  the  pitying  Angel  calls; 

Oh!  what  a  harvest  here  of  scorn  the  Age  shall  reap! 


Ye  prisons  of  an  old  Barbarity, 

Bloody  Foth'ringay,  Chillon's  dungeon  cave, 
Krotov,  that  barred  the  Maid  of  Domremy, 

And  ye  dim  vaults  beneath  the  Adriatic  wave. 


Whose  walls  are  scarred  with  legends  of  despair, 
Greet  here  your  rival  of  the  Western  World! 

Shackles  and  insults  here?  And  yet  they  swear 
Here  is  the  boasted  "Banner  of  the  Free"  unfurled! 


The  glorious  promise  of  my  birth  is  fled! 

And  I  have  nought  to  give,  oh!  sons  of  mine, 
But  tears!  Tears  for  the  living  and  the  dead, 

Tears  for  my  heroes'  orphans  and  my  ruined  shrine. 

Erewhile  I  wore  my  robes  of  state — but  now 

Sorrow  hath  crowned  me  with  her  cypress  wreath, 

Yet  am  I  still  a  queen!  with  a  veiled  brow, 
A  shadow  queen,  immortal  at  the  gate  of  Death. 


A  phantom  in  the  pathway  of  the  years, 
Claiming  the  glory  that  shall  surely  crown 

The  brave  unfortunate.     Hallowed  by  tears 
I  go  to  dwell  among  lost  nations  of  renown. 


130          CULLINGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY. 

UNUSUAL  WAR  EXPERIENCE. 

It  was  early  in  February,  1865,  that  a  plan  for  taking  a  trip 
around  the  Confederate  lines  in  front  of  Petersburg  was  in 
augurated.  Several  military  men,  whose  winter  quarters  were 
in  our  vicinity,  were  visiting  our  house.  They  assured  us  that 
while  there  was  a  minimum  danger,  it  was  more  than  prob 
able  there  would  be  no  firing  at  that  time,  it  being  earlier  than 
spring  operations  usually  began.  Setting  aside  the  few  diffi 
culties  that  remained,  we  went  confidently  forward. 

The  day  chosen  happened  to  be  the  one  on  which  the  noted 
Peace  Commissioners,  Hunter,  Campbell  and  Stephens,  went 
through  the  Union  lines  to  Fortress  Monroe  for  the  purpose  of 
interviewing  President  Lincoln  as  to  a  possible  termination  of 
the  war,  a  consummation  devoutly  hoped  for.  None  of  us  knew 
of  this  proposed  conference,  however,  not  even  those  high  in  au 
thority,  for  it  was  a  wise  part  in  war  times  to  withhold  all 
such  secrets.  As  a  prudent  father  frequently  keeps  those  he 
loves  in  ignorance  of  financial  embarrassment,  so  our  chiefs 
pondered  those  things  in  their  hearts,  hoping  that  the  worst 
would  not  come.  A  lovely  morning,  warmer  in  that  section 
than  usual  in  February,  brought  us  to  the  beginning  of  our 
journey. 

My  father,  who  was  not  in  the  army  at  the  time  on  account 
of  ill  health,  was  chosen  to  pioneer  us,  knowing  as  he  did 
every  inch  of  the  ground,  having  lived  in  and  among  its  haunts 

since  boyhood.  The  party  consisting  of  Miss  B ,  who 

afterwards  married  the  son  of  our  chieftan,  Miss  W ,  now 

the  widow  of  a  Congressman,  a  son  of  one  of  our  State  Judges, 
my  father  and  myself. 

Women  in  the  South  had  become  quite  well  accustomed  to 
endure  hardships  and  danger.  Too  many  can  remember  how 
they  were  driven  from  their  homes  by  bursting  shells  which 
sometimes  entered  the  walls  tearing  to  pieces  furniture,  etc., 
or  otherwise.  Sometimes  even  a  short  horseback  ride  would 
take  them  near  the  batteries  of  the  enemy,  who,  supposing 
them  to  be  scouts  or  reconnoitering  officers,  would  send  a  shot 
toward  them  causing  a  scamper  to  some  place  of  safety.  Al 
though  at  the  mercy  of  a  large  army,  like  loyal  women,  they 
calmly  trusted  in  the  ability  of  their  own  soldiers  to  protect 
them. 

Our  approach  to  the  lines  was  decided  upon  at  a  point  least 
exposed  to  the  observation  of  the  opposing  army.  Having 
reached  and  entered  into  the  fortifications,  we  followed  a  long 
and  circuitous  route  for  a  distance  of  five  miles.  We  thus 
passed  both  infantry  and  artillery  commands.  The  infantry 


CU LUNGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY.         131 

was  in  charge  of  the  main  line,  and  the  artillery  manned  the 
forts  and  salients.  We  were  to  be  welcomed  at  one  of  the 
salients  by  a  captain  of  artillery.  He  took  us  through  the  fort 
and  allowed  us  to  superintend,  for  our  amusement,  (?)  the 
firing  of  the  heavy  pieces  of  artillery  towards  a  battery  op 
posite.  This  opened  an  artillery  duel,  and  we  were  glad  to 
retire  to  a  spot  where  only  an  occasional  shot  from  pickets 
and  sharpshooters  could  reach  us.  On  we  marched  from  there, 
passing  command  after  command,  getting  a  good  view  of  camp 
life,  bomb-proof  houses  and  soldiery. 

One  soldier  seemed  to  take  a  special  aversion  to  my  father's 
citizen  garb,  as  he  was  wearing  a  coat  of  good  quality,  a  relic 
of  bygone  days.  "  That  is  the  first  swallow-tail  coat  I've  seen 
since  the  war  began,"  he  sang  out,  meaning  that  citizen's  dress 
was  a  rare  sight,  and  verifying  the  truth  of  General  Grant's 
well-remembered  aphorism  that  we  had  "  robbed  the  cradle 
and  the  grave  "  in  our  desperate  struggle. 

In  further  demonstration  of  this  fact,  I  had  an  uncle  at  that 
time  in  the  trenches,  not  sixteen  years  old. 

As  we  walked  along  we  could  hear  occasional  minnie  balls 
"sizz"  by  us,  and  cut  through  the  trees  on  the  bank  above  our 
heads. 

One  of  our  party  insisted  upon  raising  her  head  above  the 
parapet  to  see  what  was  going  on  in  front,  but  the  military 
men  who  had  joined  us  objected,  telling  her  that  it  might  mean 
instant  death. 

At  that  time  a  good  deal  of  mining  and  counter  mining  was 
going  on  by  both  armies.  The  battle  of  the  Crater  had  been 
the  outcome  of  the  "  springing"  of  one  of  these  mines  by  the 
Union  army,  and  was  illustrative  to  a  nice  degree  of  the  accu 
racy  with  which  distances  are  calculated  by  those  accustomed 
to  such  work.  Bach  army,  in  hourly  anticipation  of  a  ruse  of 
war,  would  endeavor  to  countermine,  and,  if  possible,  strike 
the  one  opposite  before  it  was  completed.  The  miners  engaged 
in  this  work  were  often  so  near  each  other  that  they  could 
hear  the  picks  of  the  other  striking  and  digging  out  the  earth. 

When  these  mines  were  completed  large  quantities  of  pow 
der  were  deposited  in  the  further  end,  and  into  this  was  placed 
a  fuse  extending  toward  the  opening  sufficiently  distant  to  be 
ignited  without  danger.  When  the  favorable  time  arrived,  or 
ders  would  be  given  to  some  responsible  soldier  to  light  the 
fuse,  and  the  deadly  work  would  be  accomplished.  Little 
thought  those  who  were  above  them  that  they  were  living 
day  by  day  in  impending  certainty  of  death. 

As  a  part  of  the  day's  undertakings  we  were  to  go  into  one 


132         CULLING^  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY. 

of  these  mines,  and,  of  course,  as  good  soldiers  and  true,  we 
were  not  to  back  out,  although  we  frankly  admit  we  were  like 
the  man  who,  when  asked  if  he  could  eat  crow,  said  he  thought 
he  might,  but  he  didn't  "  hanker  arter  it." 

We  entered  by  what  appeared  to  be  the  frame  of  a  large 
doorway.  The  roof  was  supported  by  wooden  pieces,  and  on 
the  bottom  we  walked  over  sills  which  gave  the  mine  very 
much  the  appearance  of  a  railroad  tunnel,  though  not  so  large 
and  very  much  darker. 

We  were  preceded  by  a  man  with  a  lantern,  who  was  to 
show  us  the  intricacies  of  the  subterranean  chamber,  and  to 
lead  us  as  near  the  powder  as  was  deemed  prudent.  Only  one 
person  could  proceed  at  a  time.  We  followed  in  a  line,  the 
one  who  was  left  in  the  rear  being  considered  fortunate,  as 
we  expected  to  retreat  in  case  of  accident.  A  murky  atmos 
phere  above,  slushy  earth  beneath,  accompanied  by  the  dim 
light  of  the  lantern  ahead,  with  the  possible  chance,  as  we 
thought,  of  the  ignition  of  the  fuse,  made  the  situation  any 
thing  but  a  peasant  one,  but  we  were  with  the  military  and 
had  to  obey  the  peremptory  order  to  go  forward.  We  were 
however,  relieved  from  further  apprehension  by  the  sudden 
going  out  of  the  light,  which  necessitated  a  "right  about  face," 
and  "to  the  rear,"  which  we  accomplished  with  great  activity, 
with  no  loss  on  our  part  save  a  rubber  shoe,  which  was  left  in 
the  mud  between  the  sills.  We  were  glad  to  be  in  the  light  of 
day  once  more.  It  was  then  about  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon, 
and  we  concluded  that  we  had  better  turn  our  steps  homeward 
as  we  were  near  the  end  of  our  five  miles  walk,  when  in  the 
distance,  and  near  the  point  of  our  destination,  we  noticed 
that  the  armies  on  both  sides  were  mounting  the  breastworks, 
and,  as  there  was  no  firing,  but  cheering  in  its  stead,  the  of 
ficer  concluded  that  a  truce  had  been  ordered  on  that  part  of 
the  line.  This  proved  to  be  true,  as  it  soon  became  general, 
and  the  soldiers  on  both  sides  were  hallowing  and  cheering 
each  other,  calling  out  "  Johnny  Reb  "  and  "  Billy  Yank  "  vig 
orously. 

When  we  reached  the  road  by  which  we  intended  to  return, 
we  found  that  the  flag  of  truce  had  been  raised  to  insure  the 
safe  conduct  into  the  Union  lines  of  the  Peace  Commissioners 
for  the  purpose  heretofore  stated.  As  a  reward  for  our  brav 
ery  (?)  we  were  allowed  to  ride  home  in  the  carriage  which 
conveyed  these  dignitaries  thither,  and  we  returned  home 
thinking  that,  although  we  had  conferred  no  lasting  benefit  on 
mankind,  we  were  at  least  happy  and  satisfied  in  the  experi 
ences  of  the  day.  MRS.  J.  P.  MINBTREE. 


CULL  INGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY.         133 

THE    VIRGINIA    LADIES. 

Go  thou  and  search  the  archives 

Of  all  recorded  time, 
And  see  whose  deeds  are  greatest, 

Most  noble  and  sublime; 
And  truth,  from  history's  pages, 

This  simple  fact  shall  tell: 
That  deeds  of  loving  woman 

All  other  deeds  excel. 

Who  standeth  by  in  sickness, 

When  summer  friends  have  fled; 
Who  smootheth  down  the  pillow 

Upon  the  sufferer's  bed; 
Who  watcheth  o'er  our  slumbers, 

When  all  the  world's  at  rest; 
Who  pillows,  too,  our  aching  head 

Upon  her  loving  breast." 
Georgia,  A.  D.  1863. 

The  remains  of  a  young  Confederate  soldier,  Lieutenant 
J.  R.  Levy,  who  lost  his  life  at  the  battle  of  Hatchers  Run, 
near  Petersburg,  arrived  here  yesterday  evening.  He  was  a 
member  of  one  of  the  companies  that  left  here  to  battle  in  Vir 
ginia.  The  people  of  Georgia,  and  indeed  of  the  whole  South, 
will  remember  gratefully  the  ladies  of  Virginia  for  their  praise 
worthy  efforts  in  caring  for  the  Confederate  soldier  (living  or 
dead).  A  gallant  Georgian  thus  speaks  of  the  Petersburg 
ladies:  "Aye,  many  a  white  winged  messenger  has  been  sent 
home  to  tell  of  the  patriotism  and  kindness  of  Petersburg's 
noble  women.  Wherever  we  have  gone  their  praises  resound." 
Well  may  the  poet  sing  the  praises  of  woman. 

Macon,  Ga.,  A.  D.  1862. 

A  tribute  to  Miss  Mary  Batte,  Assistant  Linen  Matron,  Pop 
lar  Lawn  Hospital. 


SOMEBODY'S  DARLING. 

Into  a  ward  of  the  whitewashed  halls 

Where  the  dead  and  the  dying  lay, 
Wounded  by  bayonets,  shells,  and  balls, 

Somebody's  darling  was  borne  one  day. 
Somebody's  darling,  so  young  and  brave; 

Wearing  yet  on  his  sweet,  pale  face — 
Soon  to  be  hid  in  the  dust  of  the  grave — 

The  lingering  light  of  his  boyhood's  grace. 

Matted  and  damp  are  the  curls  of  gold 
Kissing  the  snow  of  that  fair  young  brow, 

Pale  are  the  lips  of  delicate  mould — 
Somebody's  darling  is  dying  now. 


134          CULLINGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY. 

Back  from  his  beautiful  blue-veined  brow 
Brush  his  wandering  waves  of  gold; 

Cross  his  hands  on  his  bosom  now — 
Somebody's  darling  is  still  and  cold. 

Kiss  him  once  for  somebody's  sake, 

Murmur  a  prayer  soft  and  low; 
One  bright  curl  from  its  fair  mates  take — 

They  were  somebody's  pride,  you  know, 
Somebody's  hand  hath  rested  here — 

Was  it  a  mother's,  soft  and  white? 
Or  have  the  lips  of  a  sister  fair 

Been  baptized  in  their  waves  of  light? 

God  knows  best.     He  has  somebody's  love, 

Somebody's  heart  enshrined  him  there, 
Somebody  wafts  his  name  above, 

Night  and  morn,  on  the  wings  of  prayer. 
Somebody  wept  when  he  marched  away, 

Looking  so  handsome,  brave  and  grand; 
Somebody's  kiss  on  his  forehead  lay, 

Somebody  clung  to  his  parting  hand. 

Somebody's  watching  and  waiting  for  him, 

Yearning  to  hold  him  again  to  her  heart; 
And  there  he  lies  with  his  blue  eyes  dim, 

And  the  smiling,  childlike  lips  apart. 
Tenderly  bury  the  fair  young  dead — 

Pausing  to  drop  on  his  grave  a  tear. 
Carve  on  the  wooden  slab  o'er  his  head: 

"Somebody's  darling  slumbers  here." 

—MARIA  LA  COSTE. 


DATES   OF   SECESSION. 

Following  are  the  dates  upon  which  the  States  of  the  Sou 
thern  Confederacy  seceded: 

South   Carolina December   20,   1860 

Mississippi January   9,    1861 

Florida January  10,  1861 

Alabama January  11,  1861 

Georgia January  19,  1861 

Louisiana January  26,  1861 

Texas February   1,    1861 

Virginia April   17,  1861 

Arkansas May  6,  1861 

North  Carolina May  20,  1861 

Tennessee June  24,  1861 

Missouri October  31,   1861 

Kentucky November  20,  1861 


CULLING*  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY.         135 


FIRST  SOUTHERN    HOSPITAL. 


It  Was  Established  at  Williamsburg  and  Mrs.  Letitia  Semple 

Was   its   Founder. 

Among  the  Southern  veterans  residing  in  the  National  Capi 
tal  are  some  noble  women,  whose  sacrifices  and  devotions  to 
our  cause  have  never  been  recorded  in  history.  The  frosts  of 
time  have  whitened  their  heads  like  the  old  soldiers,  but  the 
purity  and  beauty  of  their  hearts  is  not  marred. 

One  of  these,  Mrs.  Letitia  Tyler  Semple,  daughter  of  ex- 
President  Tyler,  established  the  first  hospital  in  the  South. 
When  the  war  commenced  she  was  in  New  York  with  her  hus 
band,  who  was  Paymaster  in  the  United  States  Navy,  stationed 
at  New  York.  They  immediately  came  South  and  cast  their 
fortunes  with  our  people — he  taking  a  position  on  the  Ala 
bama  and  she  on  another,  and  sometimes  the  more  trying  bat 
tle  ground.  In  Philadelphia,  on  her  way  South,  Mrs.  Semple 
met  a  friend  who  suggested  to  her  that  more  soldiers  died 
from  sickness  than  the  bullet,  and  that  she  inaugurate  a  move 
ment  for  the  establishment  of  hospitals,  which  she  did  as  soon 
as  she  reached  Richmond,  in  May,  1861. 

She  arrived  there  the  day  the  blockade  set  in.  There  she 
met  her  father,  who  was  a  member  of  the  Confederate  Con 
gress,  and  he  obtained  permission  of  Mr.  Pope  Walker,  Con 
federate  Secretary  of  War,  to  establish  a  hospital  in  Williams- 
burg.  Mrs.  Semple's  appeal  to  the  ladies  of  Williamsburg  was 
heartily  responded  to.  Colonel  Benjamin  S.  Ewell  was  in 
command  of  the  Peninsular,  and  with  other  gentlemen  encour 
aged  and  assisted  the  move.  The  female  Seminary,  which 
stood  upon  the  site  of  the  Colonial  Capital,  was  selected  for 
the  purpose  desired. 

The  ladies  went  to  work  diligently,  Mrs.  Semple  making  the 
first  bed  with  her  own  hands.  Very  soon  seventy-five  cots 
were  in  place.  Dr.  Tinsley,  now  a  practicing  physician  in  Bal 
timore,  and  Dr.  W.  C.  Shields  were  the  surgeons  in  charge. 
Very  soon  troops  from  different  points  were  centered  there. 
About  that  time  Mrs.  Semple  left  Williamsburg  and  returned 
after  the  battle  of  Bethel,  June  10.  There  were  then  so  many 
refugees  from  Hampton  and  other  places,  and  so  many  sick 
soldiers  (none  wounded  as  yet),  needing  attention  and  com 
forts,  that  William  and  Mary  College,  the  Court  House  and 
several  churches  were  taken  for  hospitals,  Dr.  Willis  West 
moreland  in  charge.  Dr.  Westmoreland  sent  a  message  to 
Mrs.  Semple's  residence  asking  her  to  inspect  the  institution, 
which  she  did,  and  when  she  found  so  many  needing  more  than 
the  kind  citizens  could  immediately  supply,  she  went  to  Rioh- 


136          CULLINGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY. 

mond  the  next  day  for  supplies.  General  Moore  rendered  all 
the  assistance  he  could,  and  the  people  of  Petersburg,  Pittsyl- 
vania  and  other  places  contributed  liberally  of  food,  clothes 
and  bedding. 

The  first  death  in  the  hospital  was  that  of  young  Ball,  Com 
pany  A,  of  Fairfax  County,  Va.  The  young  hero  gave  up  his 
life  for  his  country,  and  that  was  all  that  was  known  of  him 
there,  but  the  lady  who  received  the  tender  look  from  the  soft 
blue  eyes,  and  smoothed  his  golden  hair  for  the  last  time, 
never  forgot  him.  It  is  to  be  hoped  his  family  found  his  re 
mains.  The  New  Orleans  (French)  Zouaves,  and  Captain 
Zachray's  troops  were  stationed  there  at  that  time  and  the 
ladies  made  and  presented  a  flag  to  them,  the  address  being 
made  by  Mr.  Edwin  Talliaferro.  General  Magruder  now  took 
command  of  the  troops.  Among  them  was  a  brigade  from 
Georgia  under  General  McClaus.  Colonel  Ewell  also  was  there 
with  his  regiment  awaiting  orders.  All  of  them  gallantly  as 
sisted  the  ladies  in  their  work.  Knowing  the  part  Mrs.  Sem- 
ple  had  taken  in  the  noble  work,  Colonel  Ewell  asked  General 
McClaus  if  he  had  called  upon  her.  He  answered,  "  No,  but 
I'll  go  directly."  When  he  returned  from  his  visit  to  Mrs. 
Semple  and  the  Colonel  asked  him  what  he  thought  of  her,  he 
said,  "Why,  sir,  I  hadn't  been  in  that  room  five  minutes,  when, 
if  she  had  said  to  me  'McClaus  bring  me  a  bucket  of  water  from 
the  spring,'  I  would  have  done  it. 

So  the  women  of  that  day  helped  the  cause  by  cheering  the 
living  and  caring  for  the  sick  and  wounded,  and  the  beautiful 
woman  who  inaugurated  such  a  glorious  work  still  smiles  en 
couragement  to  every  generous  and  loyal  deed  for  the  good  of 
our  loved  Southland.  The  women  of  this  generation  also  have 
a  work  to  do,  and  they  are  banding  together  for  the  purpose. 
In  Washington,  besides  the  soldiers  and  their  families,  there 
are  needy  ones  from  every  State,  who  have  been  shipwrecked 
on  the  sea  of  life.  Our  Southern  Relief  Association  is  com 
posed  of  about  three  hundred  women  who  labor  zealously  in 
caring  for  this  class,  those  who  have  no  friends  to  help  them. 
It  is  refreshing  to  meet  with  an  organization  so  generous  and 
loyal  in  spirit  and  practice.  When  preparing  for  entertain 
ments  wealthy  women  don  their  aprons  and  work  by  the  side 
of  those  who  are  poor,  oftimes  without  knowing  each  other's 
name.  Every  Southern  heart  that  beats  over  a  well-filled 
pocket  should  open  it  now,  for  soon  our  veterans  will  "pass 
over  the  river."  There  they  will  neither  want  nor  suffer. 
While  honoring  the  dead  let  us  not  forget  the  living. — Mrs. 
Alice  T.  Buck,  in  Confederate  Veteran. 


CULLINGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY.         137 

THE  UNKNOWN  CONFEDERATE  SOLDIER. 

Our  land  is  dotted  from  end  to  end  with  soldiers'  graves, 
and  many  of  the  simple  headboards  above  them  bear  this  in 
scription:  "Unknown  Soldier  of Corps  or  Regiment," 

with  the  name  of  the  field  on  which  he  fell. 

In  a  little,  lonely  hillock, 

Where  the  South  wind  softly  sighs, 
There,  his  weary  marches  over; 

There  the  unknown  soldier  lies. 
Never  more  the  drum  shall  wake  him, 

Sleeping  there  beneath  the  sod; 
Never,  till  the  flesh  shall  quicken 

At  the  sounding  trump  of  God. 

Whence  he  came  or  where  enlisted, 

In  the  army  of  our  land; 
Where  he  fought  or  where  he  rested, 

At  the  leader's  stern  command. 
Where,  at  last,  his  warfare  ended, 

These  I  little  know  or  care; 
Hero  !  he  who  died  for  freedom, 

Counting  not  his  heart's  blood  dear. 

This  I  know,  a  mother  bore  him, 

Loved  him  with  her  holy  love; 
Many  a  night  she  listened  for  him; 

Many  a  prayer  she  sent  above. 
It  may  be  she  watches  sadly 

For  the  foot  that  never  more 
Never,  never,  shall  tread  lightly 

O'er  the  dear  old  household  floor. 

Some  one,  wife  perchance,  or  sister, 

Buttoned  first  the  faded  coat; 
That  his  life-blood  stained  with  crimson 

When  the  cannon's  fiery  throat 
Flashed  the  swift,  grim  death  to  thousands, 

Falling  as  the  brave  can  fall. 
When  they  sacrifice  to  freedom, 

Grandly  giving  up  their  all. 

Friend,  for  those  dear  ones  who  loved  thee, 

In  thy  home  so  far  away; 
For  the  vacant  chair  that  never  shall 

Be  filled  again  for  aye; 
For  the  flag  that  waved  above  thee, 

In  the  thickest  of  the  fight; 
Here  I  weave  my  mournful  chaplet, 

Gallant  soldier  of  the  right. 

Softly  may  the  seasons  wrap  thee; 

Winter  with  his  stainless  snow; 
Spring,  with  fairy  fingers  o'er  thee, 

All  her  sweetest  blossoms  throw. 


138         CULL  INGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY. 

Summer,  with  her  heart  of  fire, 

Throw  her  roses  o'er  thy  rest; 
And  the  autumn  winds  their  requiem 

Wail  above  thy  silent  breast. 

Unknown  soldier  of  my  country; 

Unknown  brother  of  my  heart ; 
Let  a  nation's  grief  embalm  thee, 

Let  a  nation's  love  have  part. 
In  his  grave  so  green  and  lowly, 

For  our  children's  babes  shall  weep 
Tears  of  grateful,  fond  affection, 

Where  the  South's  defenders  sleep. 


OUR   NOBLE   DEAD. 

We  will  not  wander  to  the  gloomy  years, 

Through  whose  dark  scenes  we  have  so  lately  passed, 
Where  no  soft  beam  of  golden  light  appears 

To  gild  the  cloud  of  sorrow  o'er  them  cast. 

Those  things  are  but  a  solitude  of  graves, 
Where  Love  and  Memory  pour  their  tears  like  rain, 

And  where,  in  voiceless  grief,  the  cypress  waves 
Above  the  hearts  which  died  for  us  in  vain. 

The  dead,  who  died,  as  died  that  gallant  throng, 
To  shield  a  cause,  which  in  their  eyes  was  just, 

Shall  live  enshrined  in  story  and  in  song, 
While  ages  roll  above  their  scattered  dust. 

What  though  for  them  no  marble  shaft  shall  rise, 
Time  shall  not  see  their  sacred  memory  wane; 

Their  scroll  of  fame,  expansive  as  the  skies, 
Years  of  oblivion  shall  corrode  in  vain. 

Heroic  deeds  are  deathless,  and  they  live 
Unmarred,  while  empires  crumble  into  dust, 

They  master  fame,  and  life  and  glory  give 
"To  storied  urn  and  animated  bust." 

There  rose  no  sculptured  monument  to  tell 
Where  Spartan  valor  broke  the  Persian  sway, 

And  yet  we  know  there  nobly  fought  and  fell 
Heroic  men  in  "Old  Platea's  day." 

Peace  to  the  ashes  of  our  noble  dead! 

For  distant  ages  shall  behold  each  name 
Bright'ning  like  morning,  when  the  night  is  fled, 

And  ever  broad'ning  on  the  disc  of  fame. 

Farewell!  ye  high,  heroic  hearts,  farewell! 

Inspired  lips  shall  teach  the  world  ere  long, 
Ye  fought  to  hallow  story,  and  ye  fell 

To  give  a  new  apocalypse  to  song! 
Alabama.  JOHN  B.  HATCHER. 


CULLINGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY.         139 


THE  PAEAN  OF  THE  COFFINLESS  DEAD. 

The  raean  I  sing  of  the  coffinless  dead — 

The  heroes  who  wore  the  gray, 
Who  dared  to  follow  where  chivalry  led, 
And  fronted  the  flame  of  the  battle  red, 
Whose  blood  like  warm,  red  wine  was  shed, 

In  the  heat  of  the  deadly  fray. 

Ah,  grand  is  the  task  the  tale  to  tell, 

Of  those  heroes  without  a  name, 
Whose  spirits  were  stirred  by  the  "  rebel  yell," 
As  it  rose  and  throbbed  on  the  battle-swell, 
As  they  followed  their  leaders  mid  fires  of  hell, 

Thro'  the  gates  of  a  deathless  fame. 

All  hail  !  to  the  brave,  whose  forms  so  bright, 

Did  a  nation's  shield  arise, 
Who  dared  to  stand  and  strike  for  the  right; 
Whose  spirits  passed  from  the  battle  night 
Into  God's  presence,  pure  and  white, 

With  the  stamp  of  the  sacrifice. 

All  hail  !  to  the  blood,  that  a  chrism  fell 

On  an  infant  nation's  head, 
What,  though  the  chimes  of  its  christening  bell 
But  mingled  their  tones  with  its  funeral  knell, 

All  hail  !  to  its  spirit  fled. 

All  hail  !  to  the  paladins  clad  in  gray, 

That  Stuart  and  Stonewall  led, 
Who  would  with  their  lives  a  ransom  pay; 
Whose  brave  breasts  bore  the  brunt  of  the  fray, 
Who  walk  in  the  light  of  the  sunless  day; 

All  hail  !  to  the  coffinless  dead. 

Douglass,  Ark.,  March  6,  1864. 


THE   CONFEDERATE    DEAD. 

O,  not  o'er  these,  the  true  and  brave, 

Whose  mangled  forms  in  many  a  grave, 

Lie  low  where  the  grass  and  wild  flowers  spring, 

Shall  dark  oblivion  spread  her  wing. 

Green  osiers  grow, 

Red  roses  blow, 
And  garland  the  heroes  below. 

Ye  everlasting  pines,  whose  wail, 
With  mournful  dirges  swells  the  gale, 
Sweep  your  high  harps  with  requiem  grand, 
For  soldiers  of  the  Southern  land, 

Who  gave  their  life 

In  bloody  strife 
Their  memory  ours,  with  glory  rife. 


140          CULLINGS  FROM  THE  CON  FED  ERA  C  Y. 


What,  though  oppression  ruled  the  soil, 
They  might  not  view  the  victor's  spoil; 
Beside  their  shivered  swords  they  lie, 
Unheeding  neath  a  radiant  sky. 

Calm  let  them  sleep, 

"Tis  ours  to  weep, 
For  joys  we  lost,  for  woes  we  reap. 

Our  blood-stained  banner,  rent  and  lost, 
Once  waving  o'er  a  dauntless  host; 
Though  wet  thy  folds  with  freedom's  tears, 
Thy  splendor  lives  in  coming  years, 

When  mighty  mind 

Shall  weigh  mankind, 
And  right  its  equilibrium  find. 

But,  now,  in  double  night  we  dwell; 

For  that  "Lost  Cause,"  and  those  who  fell; 

Our  yearning  bosoms  still  o'erflow 

In  pangs  of  deep,  though  silent  woe. 

But  God  is  just, 

And,  in  this  trust 
We  mournful  leave  your  sacred  dust. 

Scathed,  smitten,  weary  land  be  still  ! 
Abide  the  scourge  while  Heaven  so  will; 
Hope  on,  and  wait  the  coming  day, 
Though  not  yet  seen,  and  far  away, 

When  dawning  light 

Shall  scatter  might 
And  God's  strong  arm  enforce  the  right. 

Though  mouldering  ruin  grimly  sways 
The  happy  halls  of  other  days, 
Though  aged  sires  in  slow  decline 
Lament  the  downfall  of  their  line, 

Each  hero  son 

A  meed  hath  won, 
Revered  till  life's  last  sands  shall  run. 

But  now,  and  through  all  coming  time, 
Our  countrymen  shall  live  sublime, 
In  that  heart  memory  so  dear 
To  honor's  high  and  bright  career. 

And  long  be  shed 
Above  their  bed 
Tears  for  our  loved  Confederate  dead. 

By  author  of  "  Albert  Hastings. 
A.  D.  1866. 


CULLINGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY.         141 

OUR    HEROIC    DEAD. 

(In  Memoriam.) 

A  King  once  said  of  a  prince  struck  down: 

"  Taller  he  seems  in  death," 

And  this  speech  holds  truth,  for  now  as  then, 

'Tis  after  death  we  measure  men. 

And  as  mists  of  the  past  are  rolled  away, 

Our  heroes  who  died  in  their  tattered  gray, 

Grow  taller  and  greater  in  all  their  parts, 

Till  they  fill  our  minds,  as  they  fill  our  hearts. 

And  for  those  who  lament  them  there's  this  relief — 

That  Glory  sits  by  the  side  of  Grief. 

Yes,  they  grow  taller  as  the  years  pass  by, 

And  the  world  learns  how  they  could  do  and  die. 

A  nation  respects  them;  the  East  and  the  West; 
The  far-off  slope  of  the  Golden  Coast; 
The  stricken  South  and  the  North  agree 
That  the  heroes  who  died  for  you  and  me — 
Each  valiant  man  in  his  own  degree, 
Whether  he  fell  on  the  shore  or  sea, 

Did  deeds  of  which 

This  land,  though  rich 
In  histories,  may  boast. 
And  the  sage's  book  and  the  poet's  lay 
Are  full  of  the  deeds  of  the  men  in  gray. 

No  lion  cleft  from  the  rock  is  ours, 

Such  as  Lucerne  displays; 
Our  only  wealth  is  in  tears  and  flowers 

And  words  of  reverent  praise, 
And  the  roses  brought  to  this  silent  yard, 

And  red  and  white,  Behold! 

They  tell  how  wars  for  a  kingly  crown, 

In  the  blood  of  England's  best  writ  down, 

Left  Britain  a  story  whose  moral  old, 

Is  fit  to  be  graven  in  text  of  gold ; 

The  moral  is  that  when  battles  cease 

The  ramparts  smile  in  the  blooms  of  peace. 

And  flowers  to-day  were  hither  brought, 
Prom  the  gallant  men  who  against  us  fought; 
York  and  Lancaster — Gray  and  Blue-! 
Each  to  itself  and  the  other  true. 

And  so  I  say 

Our  men  in  gray 

Have  left  to  the  South  and  North  a  tale, 
Which  none  of  the  glories  of  earth  can  pale. 

Norfolk  has  names  in  the  sleeping  host, 
Which  fill  us  with  mournful  pride — 
Taylor  and  Newton  we  well  may  boast; 
McPhail  and  Walke  and  Selden,  too, 
Brave  as  the  bravest,  as  truest  true. 


142        CULL  INGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY. 

And  Grandy  struck  down  ere  his  May  became  June: 

A  battle-flag  folded  away  too  soon; 

And  Williams,  than  whom  not  a  man  stood  higher, 

'Mid  the  host  of  heroes  baptized  in  fire. 

And  Mallory,  whose  sires  aforetime  died, 

When  freedom  and  danger  stood  side  by  side. 

Mclntosh,  too,  with  his  boarders  slain; 

Saunders  and  Jackson,  the  unripe  grain; 

And  Taliaferro,  stately  as  knight  of  old, 

A  blade  of  steel  with  a  sheath  of  gold; 

And  Wright,  who  fell  on  the  Crater's  red  sod, 

Gave  his  life  to  the  cause — his  soul  to  God. 

These  are  random  shots  at  the  field  of  fame, 

But  each  rings  out  on  a  noble  name. 

Yes,  names  like  bayonet  points,  when  massed, 

Blaze  out  when  we  gaze  on  the  splendid  past. 

The  past  is  now  like  an  arctic  sea, 

Where  the  living  currents  have  ceased  to  run ; 

But  over  that  past  the  fame  of  Lee 

Shines  out  as  the  midnight  sun; 

And  that  glorious  orb,  in  its  march  sublime, 

Shall  gild  our  graves  till  the  end  of  time. 

Composed  by  Captain  James  Barren  Hope. 


THEY  ARE  NOT  DEAD. 

They  are  not  dead ;  they  do  but  keep 
That  vigil,  which  shall  never  know 
The  waking  up  to  grief  or  woe — 

A  dreamless,  painless,  quiet  sleep — 
They  are  not  dead. 

They  are  not  dead  although  they  be 
Within  their  narrow  cells  of  clay, 
Transmuting  into  dust  away. 

Since  truth  and  honor  cannot  die — 
They  are  not  dead. 

Their  scattered  graves  by  thousands  rise 
From  fair  Virginia's  valleys  wide 
To  Rio  Grande's  silver  tide, 

Beneath  the  scope  of  Southern  skies. 

And  long  as  Southern  skies  endure, 
And  Southern  suns  may  rise  and  wane, 
Each  grave  an  altar  shall  remain, 

Whence  incense  rises  warm  and  pure. 

Proud  memories  and  fancies  fair; 
The  love  of  woman — man's  renown, 
And  childhood's  prayers  shall  flutter  down 

And  meet  in  sweet  communion  there. 


CULLINGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY,         143 

With  rights  no  tyranny  can  wrest, 

Our  country  o'er  her  soldiers  sheds 

A  radiance,  as  they  lay  their  heads, 
Like  tired  children,  on  her  breast. 

She  folds  them  in  her  circling  arms, 
And  whispers :     "  Till  the  judgment  morn, 
Safe  in  your  mother's  love,  sleep  on 

Forever  free  from  earthly  harms  " 

Sleep  on  !  they  never  more  will  know 

The  heavy  heart;  the  aching  head; 

Nor  weary  march,  which  traced  its  tread 
By  bleeding  footprints  on  the  snow. 

No  want  nor  hardship  now  is  found, 

No  hunger,  wretchedness  or  cold; 

The  carking  cares  they  new  of  old 
Are  merged  into  a  rest  profound. 

Self-abnegation,  suffering,  pain, 
And  all  that  manhood's  might  can  yield 
In  valor  on  the  battle  field, 

They  gave  in  vain — yet  not  in  vain. 

More  precious  far  their  sacred  strife; 

More  lasting  and  more  grand  appears; 

The  struggle  of  their  four  short  years, 
Than  centuries  of  common  life. 

As  sailors  under  tropic  skies 

Across  the  midnight  waves  look  back, 
And  trace  their  vessel's  onward  track; 

A  path  of  fire,  as  fast  she  flies. 

So  as  the  tides  of  history  flow, 

Their  past  its  glories  shall  proclaim 

In  lambent  lines  of  living  flame, 
Which  burn  the  brighter  as  they  go. 

The  flag  they  glorified  is  furled 

Upon  their  hearthstones  desolate; 

Its  fame,  and  theirs,  reverberate 
In  ringing  echoes  round  the  world. 

Forever  free  !  their  diadem, 

The  golden  jasmine  fondly  twines, 

And  murmurous  music  of  the  pines 
Mourns  ever  low  their  requiem. 

They  are  not  dead  !  in  shapes  sublime 

Among  us  still  they  live  and  move, 

Our  guardians  and  exemplars  prove, 
And  stamp  their  impress  on  the  time. 


144          CULLINGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY. 

They  are  not  dead  !  they  will  not  die  ! 
No  time  nor  changes  can  e'er  part 
Their  place  or  presence  from  our  heart, 

Where,  shrined  with  God  and  Heaven,  they  lie. 

Oh  !  loved  with  more  than  mortal  love; 

Oh  !  mourned  with  more  than  mortal  pain; 
The  angels  join  our  fond  refrain, 
And  chant  through  starry  realms  above — 

"  They  are  not  dead  ! " 
Composed  by  Fanny  Downing,  A.  D.  1865. 


WHAT  THE   HEART  OF  THE  YOUNG  GIRL  SAID  TO  THE 
DEAD    SOLDIER. 

Unknown  to  me,  brave  boy,  but  still  I  wreath 
For  you  the  tenderest  of  wildwood  flowers; 

And  o'er  your  tomb  a  virgin's  prayer  I  breathe 
To  greet  the  pure  moon  and  the  April  showers. 

I  only  know — 1  only  care  to  know, 

You  died  for  me — for  me  and  country  bled; 

A  thousand  Springs  and  wild  December  snow 
Will  weep  for  one  of  all  the  Southern  dead. 

Perchance,  some  mother  looks  up  to  the  skies, 
Weeping,  like  Rachel,  for  her  martyred  brave; 

Oh,  for  her  darling's  sake,  my  pitying  eyes 
Moisten  the  turf  above  your  lowly  grave. 

The  cause  is  sacred,  when  our  maidens  stand, 
Linked  with  sad  matrons  and  heroic  sires, 

Above  the  relics  of  a  vanquished  land, 
And  light  the  torch  of  sanctifying  fires. 

Your  bed  of  honor  has  a  rosy  cope 

To  shimmer  back  the  tributary  stars; 
And  every  petal  glistens  with  a  hope 

Where  love  has  blossomed  in  the  disc  of  mars. 

Sleep  !  on  your  couch  of  glory;  slumber  comes, 

Bosomed  amid  the  archangel  choir; 
Not  with  the  grumble  of  impetuous  drums, 

Deepening  the  chorus  of  embattled  ire. 

Above  you  shall  the  oak  and  cedar  fling 
Their  giant  plumage  and  protecting  shade; 

For  you  the  songbird  pauses  on  his  wing, 
And  warbles  requiems,  ever  undismayed. 

Farewell!  and  if  your  spirit  wander  near 

To  kiss  this  flower  of  unsparing  art; 
Translate  it  even  to  the  Heavenly  sphere, 

As  the  libretto  of  a  maiden's  heart. 


CULLING^  FROM  THE  CONFEDERA  C  Y.         145 

THE   DYING   SOLDIER. 

Lay  him  down  gently,  where  shadows  lie  still 
And  cool,  by  the  side  of  the  bright  mountain  rill, 
Where  spreads  the  green  grass  its  velvety  sheen, 
A  welcome  couch  for  repose  so  serene. 

There  lies  the  young  soldier;  see  from  his  side 
Flows  swiftly  the  current,  whose  dark  pulsing  tide, 
Is  bearing  away  the  bright  sands  of  life, 
And  closing  forever  his  long  dream  of  strife. 

Feebly  uncloses  the  fast-dimming  eyes, 
Once  bright  as  the  jewels  which  light  up  the  skies; 
A  moment  he  gazed  on  the  bough-spreading  dome, 
Then  whispered  in  anguish,  "  Oh,  take,  take  me  home." 

But  no,  far  away  o'er  mountain  and  fen, 
Lies  the  home  that  he  never  shall  enter  again; 
Where  loving  ones  wait  to  welcome  in  joy 
Back  to  its  sunlight  their  own  soldier  boy. 

Father,  when  proudly  you  gave  up  your  child, 
And  crushed  back  the  tears,  while  >our  lip  sadly  smiled, 
How  vague  was  the  thought,  that  we  nevermore 
Should  meet  till  we  stood  on  eternity's  shore. 

Mother,  again  I  feel  your  hot  tears 
Roll  down  my  cheeks;  not  the  mildew  of  years; 
Nor  shadow  of  death  can  tarnish  the  bliss, 
The  blessing  you  gave  me  in  that  holy  kiss. 

There's  one,  too,  whose  fair  cheeks  whiter  still  grew, 
As  she  pressed  to  his  lips  her  last  sad  adieu; 
Will  she  soon  forget  ?     Then  raising  his  hand, 
He  lovingly  gazed  on  a  small  golden  band 

That  encircled  his  finger,  while  over  his  face 
The  shadows  of  death  kept  stealing  apace; 
Oh,  God  !  may  Thy  Spirit  be  there  to  sustain, 
When  record  shall  mingle  my  name  with  the  slain. 

R.  R.  B.,  1863. 


THE  WARDS  OF  THE  NATION. 

Our  colored  people  are  spoken  of  as  the  wards  of  the  Nation. 
They  should  be  spoken  of  as  the  wards  of  the  South,  as  they 
were  left  us  in  charge  by  our  forefathers  for  many  generations 
back.  What  they  worked  for  they  in  large  part  consumed. 
An  owner  of  500  negroes  had  many  wards  to  look  after,  nurse 
through  sickness  (no  hired  trained  nurses  in  those  days)  and 
keep  in  clothes  and  food  whether  crops  failed  or  not.  They 
were  "our  wards" — a  part  of  us.  We  held  them  as  such,  and 
although  uneducated,  they  were  guileless  and  tender-hearted. 
Our  home  was  their  home.  The  sentiment  of  the  old-time 


146         CULLING S  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY. 

darkey  was  not  of  concern  for  himself,  but  for  "  Marster  and 
Mistiss."How  could  this  be  otherwise  when  the  children  of  the 
family  always  looked  out  for  "Mammy."  Ah,  the  snow-white 
apron  and  the  headkerchief  haunts  us  yet,  as  we  pulled  aside 
her  knitting  for  a  soft  seat  in  her  lap,  and  longed  for  her 
"  Swing  Low,  Sweet  Chariot,"  or  "  I  went  down  the  hill  for  to 
make  a  one  prayer,  when  I  got  there  the  devil  was  there."  The 
day  for  the  passing  of  the  mammy  and  the  log  cabin  has  come, 
yet  sweet  memories  hover  around  them  both.  In  the  little 
book  called  "  Bandana  Ballads,"  by  Howard  Weedon,  which 
every  Southerner  should  own,  we  have  this  little  piece  as  a 
specimen  of  the  loyalty  to  the  old-time  master.  This  gentle 
man  of  the  old  school  of  darkeydom  didn't  want  anything  so 
good  as  freedom  when  his  master  didn't  live  to  enjoy  it.  Yes, 
doubly  a  slave  he,  who  had  the  responsibility  of  these  wards 
of  the  South. 

Dar's  always  somethin  wantin' 

In  my  joy  at  being  free, 
When  I  think  old  master  didn't 

Live  to  share  dat  joy  with  me. 

Dem  was  mighty  big  plantations 

Dat  he  owned  before  the  war, 
And  he  de  kindes  master 

Dat  darkies  ever  saw. 

But  de  care  of  dem  was  heavy, 

Making  him  de  slave — not  we. 
And  often  I  have  heard  him  say 

He  wished  dat  he  was  me. 

And  if  he  jes  was  livin, 
He  would  have  his  wish,  you  see, 

Dem  niggers  couldn't  own  him  now, 
And  master  would  be  free. 


THE   CONFEDERATE    DEAD. 

They  sleep.     Go  not  to  Rome  nor  Greece, 
For  history  knows  no  nobler  race, 

Nor  song  a  prouder  name. 
Thy  landscapes  are  a  book  for  thee 
That  pompous  Caesar  did  not  see, 

Or  ever  dare  to  claim. 

What  hill  lifts  not  its  head  to  fame  ? 
What  field  no  Ivanhoe  can  claim, 

Or  Phillips'  dust  enshroud  ? 
Can  war  wind  up  a  fairer  blast 
Than  that  in  which  they  breathed  their  last, 

O  wake  again  as  loud  ? 


CULLINGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY.          147 

They  fell  !  but  falling  they  have  won, 
What,  living,  we  can  never  own — 

Both  peace  and  fame — their  boon. 
Can  hoary  age  of  tyrant's  reign 
Bind  fast  in  cold  oblivion's  chain 

A  name  to  glory  born  ? 

No  anthem  may  to  them  arise, 

No  muffled  notes  steal  through  the  skies, 

No  dirge  fall  on  the  ear. 
Their  requiem  is  the  morning  breeze, 
Their  tribute  is  the  falling  leaves — 

A  people's  silent  tear. 

A  tear — 'tis  all  that  we  can  give; 
Thy  country,  with  thee,  ceased  to  live; 

Thy  banner  with  thee  lies. 
For  orphan  thou — save  to  reason, 
No  nation  lives  to  call  thee  son, 

Beneath  the  broad  blue  skies. 


Then  sleep;  can  trumpet's  wild  alarm 
Disturb  the  spirit's  quiet  home, 

Or  death's  low  slumber  break  ? 
What  soul  shall  quit  his  narrow  cell 
On  earth  the  wonderous  tale  to  tell, 

He  slept  mid  Shiloh's  quake. 

Can  war  e'er  lift  a  darker  front, 
Or  battle's  cohorts  stronger  mount, 

To  roll  the  bosom  on. 
Shall  mars  roll  down  with  heavier  stride 
Than  when  on  death  he  sat  to  ride, 

And  called  the  earth  a  tomb. 

Then  sweetly  sleep,  oh  living  dead! 

No  monarch's  scowl  nor  emperor's  dread, 

Can  turn  thy  name  about. 
Repose  on  laurels  thou  hast  won, 
While  valor  claims  thee  for  a  son, 

Until  the  stars  go  out. 

No  sentinel  round  thee  treads  his  beat, 
Or  whispered  tones  watchwords  repeat, 

Or  tell  of  coming  foe. 
For  death  alone  is  watchman  there, 
Who  halts  the  lightest  thought  afar, 

And  bids  it  silence  know. 

ANONYMOUS. 


148          CULLINGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY. 

THE  SOLDIER  WHO  DIED  TO-DAY. 

Only  an  humble  cart, 

Threading  the  careless  crowd, 

And  at  his  head, 

With  solemn  tread, 
An  aged  man  of  God. 

Only  a  coffin  of  pine, 
And  a  suit  of  Confederate  gray, 

To  shroud  the  form 

All  wasted  and  worn 

Of  the  soldier  who  died  to-day. 

Only  a  mound  of  earth, 

Heaped  roughly  upon  the  breast, 

And  a  stake  at  the  head 

Of  the  narrow  bed 
Where  the  soldier  is  taking  his  rest. 

Only  the  evening  wind 

Sends  forth  a  wailing  moan, 
And  a  violet  near 
Drops  a  crystal  tear 

On  the  grave  so  newly  grown. 

Yet  someone  will  watch  and  wait 

In  a  distant  Southern  home, 
Eager  to  meet 
The  coming  feet 

That  will  never,  never  come. 

Aye,  watch  till  the  eye  grows  dim, 
And  the  heart  wax  faint  with  pain, 

Time  will  come  and  go 

In  its  ceaseless  flow, 

But  he  will  not  come  again. 

Unheeding  your  watch  he  sleeps; 

Unheeding  the  lapse  of  time, 
And  the  grass  will  wave 
O'er  his  lonely  gave 

Ere  the  roses  reach  their  prime. 

Not  in  the  ranks  he  fell, 

Where  the  soldier  is  proud  to  die; 

Where  the  muskets  flash 

And  the  sabres  clash 

At  the  ringing  battle  cry. 

But  alone  on  the  feverish  couch, 
Where  disease  had  laid  him  apart, 

The  icy  breath 

Of  relentless  death 

Chilled  the  fountain  of  his  heart. 

Yet  a  nation  of  Southern  hearts, 
With  grateful  accord  will  say: 

"  Hero's  renown 

And  a  martyr's  crown 

For  the  soldier  who  died  to-day." 
Macon,  Ga.,  A.  D.  1863. 


CULLINGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY.          149 


COCKADE  CITY  LADIES. 


Petersburg  Ladies  from  1861  to  1865. 

"In  all  the  broad  limits  of  the  'Confederacy/  none  so  toiled, 
suffered  and  denied  themselves  for  the  living  Confederate  sol 
dier  as  did  the  matrons  and  maids  of  Petersburg — none  so 
mourned  the  dead,  and  none  have  or  shall  surpass  them  in 
honoring  the  buried.  How  they  exhausted  the  days  and  nights 
in  painful  labor,  but  labor  sweetened  to  the  extreme  of  pleasure 
by  the  love  with  which  they  wrought  to  supply  the  needs  of 
the  poor  'rebels;'  how  they  refused  themselves  every  luxury 
to  which  their  habits  and  modes  of  life  had  accustomed  them, 
that  the  soldiers  might  possess  one  comfort  the  more  in  camp 
or  field;  how  they  toiled  in  the  hospitals;  how  they  gave  up 
comforts,  and  even  absolute  necessaries,  that  the  sick  might 
be  nourished;  how  they  encouraged  the  desponding,  fortified 
the  faint-hearted,  consoled  the  dying — none  of  this  is  known, 
or  will  be  known,  save  to  those  who  gave  and  those  who  re 
ceived  the  blessing  of  their  tenderness  and  care,  and  to  'Him 
who  knoweth  all  things.'  Yet  this  is  known,  that  it  surpassed 
whatever  else  was  done — surpassed  all  that  is  written  in  the 
immortal  chapter  of  'Woman's  Devotion.'  " 

A.  D.  1861  to  1865. 

Dedicated  to  a  patriotic  daughter  of  Virginia,  Mrs.  Almeria 
Batte,  of  Petersburg,  Va.,  who  never  wearied  in  doing  good. 


LIZZIE  HAYDEN'S  LETTERS. 

Miss  Davidson  preserved  this  letter  and  called  it  "  My  dear 
Rebel  Darkey." 

Lizzie  Hayden  was  an  out-and-out  Southern  sympathizer 
during  the  war,  as  a  great  many  other  of  our  old  slaves  were. 
The  Sunny  South  was  the  land  of  their  birth,  and  although 
unlettered  and  trusting,  they  loved  their  home  as  much  as  the 
Sandwich  Islander  or  the  Fiji,  who,  although  uncivilized  ac 
cording  to  modern  methods,  can  say  "this  is  my  own,  my 
native  land."  Lizzie  was  at  one  time  imprisoned  and  came 
very  near  being  mobbed  by  Federal  soldiers  and  hung.  She 
was  afterwards  released  by  the  Confederates.  She  worked 
faithfully  in  every  place  she  could,  and  especially  in  hospital 
work.  She  writes  to  her  old  "  Secesh  "  friend,  June  8,  1866: 

"  I  was  so  glad  to  hear,  through  Dr.  R ,  of  you  and  to  talk 

of  my  old  Dixie  friend.  I  almost  thought  I  was  in  the  old  land 

again.  Well,  Miss  N ,  I  suppose  you  want  to  know  how  I 

came  here  and  when  (meaning  Baltimore).  I  went  "up  the 
spout"  at  Greensboro,  N.  C.,  at  General  Johnston's  surrender. 


50          CULLINGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY. 

I  was  with  my  master  at  the  hospital,  and  we  all  "went  up"  to 
gether.  I  have  seen  more  abominable  Yankees  than  I  ever 
want  to  lay  eyes  on  again.  I  am  living  with  a  strong  "Reb," 
and  intend  to  live  with  none  else  while  I  stay  here,  which  I 
hope  will  not  be  very  long,  for  I  intend  to  return  to  the  dear  old 
land  of  my  love  as  soon  as  I  can  get  my  master  to  do  so." 

July  26,  1866. 

You  say  in  your  letter  that  you  are  glad  I  am  partial  to 
"  Dixie  Land."  Yes,  God  bless  the  people  and  the  land.  I  am 
proud  to  have  it  to  say  that  I  shared  with  these  people  their 
feelings,  their  fortunes  and  reverses,  that  they  were  subjected 
to  during  the  four  years.  During  that  time  I  was  on  the  bat 
tle  field  of  Port  Republic,  with  Stonewall  Jackson,  and  all  the 
services  I  did  for  the  sick  and  wounded  were  done  cheerfully, 
and  were  it  to  go  over  again,  I  would  freely  offer  my  services 
and  do  all  in  my  power  for  our  dear  homes,  for  the  Sunny  South 
is  the  garden  spot  of  this  country,  and  the  people  are  noble, 
generous  and  brave.  I  frequently  have  this  song  to  come  into 
my  mind  and  keep  humming  it  during  the  day:  "Take  me 
home  to  the  place  where  I  first  saw  the  light,  to  my  sweet 
Sunny  South  take  me  home"  (Old  Song),  and  I  sometimes  feel 
sad.  My  (?)  section  of  Virginia  suffered  a  great  deal.  It  was  so 
perceptible.  All  the  beautiful  houses  for  miles  were  burned, 
and  the  fields  laid  waste — not  a  fence  to  be  seen.  It  is  all 
over  now  and  we  of  the  South  have  to  suffer.  Perhaps  it  was 
for  some  wise  purpose.  *  *  *  I  think  of  the  pleasant  times 
I  had  working  under  you  in  the  hospital,  and  it  seems  to  me  I 
shall  never  be  so  well  situated  again." 

Your  obedient  servant, 

LIZZIE  HAYDBN. 

(A  servant  of  an  army  surgeon,  and  nurse  of  large  family  of 
children.) 


«  HISTORICAL  FACT  ABOUT  DECORATION. 

Fitting  it  is  that  the  women  of  Petersburg  should  have  pro 
jected  this  last  labor  of  love  for  our  Confederate  dead.  Noth 
ing  else  is  left  to  them  but  these  poor  honors.  A  noble  rivalry 
in  which  all  partake  avouches  the  unanimous  sympathy  of  our 
people  in  this  holy  work.  Venerable  men,  bowed  down  with 
age  and  infirmity,  forget  their  feebleness  to  labor  with  their 
hands,  that  the  graves  of  soldiers,  mostly  from  distant  States, 
should  not  be  neglected;  and  by  their  sides  striplings,  snatch 
ing  an  hour  from  their  schools,  have  wielded  their  spades  in 
the  same  pious  task. 


CULLING S  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY.         151 


MAMMY'S  VIEW  OF  FREEDOM. 

"  O,  Mammy,  have  you  heard  the  news  ?' 
Thus  spake  a  Southern  child, 

As  in  the  nurse's  face 

She  upward  glanced  and  smiled. 

"  What  news  you  mean,  my  little  one  ? 

It  must  be  very  fine, 
To  make  my  darling's  face  so  red, 

Her  sunny  blue  eyes  shine." 

"  Why  Abram  Lincoln,  don't  you  know, 

The  Yankee  President, 
Whose  ugly  picture  once  we  saw 

When  up  to  town  we  went — 

"  Well,  he  is  going  to  free  you  all, 
And  make  you  rich  and  grand, 

And  you'll  be  dressed  in  silk  and  gold, 
Like  the  proudest  in  the  land. 

"  A  gilded  coach  shall  carry  you 

Where  e'er  you  wish  to  ride; 
And,  mammy,  all  your  work  shall  be 

Forever  laid  aside." 

The  eager  speaker  paused  for  breath, 

And  then  the  old  nurse  said, 
WThile  closer  to  her  swarthy  cheek 

She  pressed  the  golden  head. 

"  My  little  missus,  stop  and  res', 

You'  talking  mighty  fas'; 
Jes'  look  up  dere  and  tell  me  what 

You  see  in  yonder  glass  ? 

"  You  see  old  mammy's  wrinkly  face, 

As  black  as  any  coal; 
And  underneath  her  handerchief 

Whole  heaps  of  knotty  wool. 

"  My  darling's  face  is  red  and  white, 

Her  skin  is  soft  and  fine, 
And  on  her  pretty  little  head 

De  yaller  ringlets  shine. 

"  My  chile,  who  made  dis  difference 
'Twix  mammy  and  'twixt  you  ? 

You  reads  de  dear  Lord's  blessed  book, 
And  you  can  tell  me  true. 

"  De  dear  Lord  said  it  must  be  so  ; 

And,  honey,  I,  for  one, 
Wid  tankful  heart  will  always  say 

His  holy  will  be  done. 


152         CULLINGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY, 


"  I  tanks  mas'  Lincum  all  de  same, 

But  when  I  want's  for  free, 
I'll  ask  de  Lord  of  glory, 

Not  poor  buckra  man  like  he. 

"And  as  for  gilded  carriages, 

De's  notin  'tall  to  see, 
My  massa's  coach  what  carries  him 

Is  good  'nough  for  me. 

"  And  honey,  when  your  mammy  wants 
To  change  her  homespun  dress, 

She'll  pray  like  dear  old  missus, 
To  be  clothed  with  righteousness. 

"  My  work's  been  done  dis  many  a  day, 

And  now  I  takes  my  ease, 
Awaiting  for  de  Master's  call, 

Jes'  when  de  Master  please. 

"And  when  at  las'  de  time's  done  come, 

And  poor  old  mammy  dies, 
Your  own  dear  mother's  soft,  white  hand 

Shall  close  dese  tired  old  eyes. 

"  De  dear  Lord  Jesus  soon  will  call 

Old  mammy  home  to  Him; 
And  He  can  wash  my  guilty  soul 

From  e  /ery  spot  of  sin. 

'  And  at  His  feet  I  shall  lie  down, 

Who  died  and  rose  for  me; 
And  den,  and  not  till  den,  my  chile, 
Your  mammy  will  be  free. 

"  Come  little  missus,  say  your  prayers; 

Let  old  mas'  Linkum  'lone, 
De  debil  knows  who  b'longs  to  him, 

And  he'll  take  care  of  his  own. 


A  NEWLY  ELECTED  REPRESENTATIVE,  UNDER  THE 
FOURTEENTH  AMENDMENT. 

The  following  letter,  written  by  a  lady  of  African  'scent,  to 
Mr.  Pompey  Snow,  has  been  preserved: 

"My  Dear  Ole  Man — You'll  no  that  brudder  Robin  Jones 
writes  this,  but  I  dictates  it.  Sister  Pheby  An  and  Mahaly  is 
very  jelous  jest  becase  you  is  at  Richmun  on  the  convention 
and  thur  husbands  is  gittin  of  timber.  I've  hearn  it  sed  that 
you  all  is  gitting  80  scents  a  day  and  sits  in  a  beautiful  parlur 
in  chears  like  dey  had  at  de  great  house  in  dey  old  white  folks 
time,  and  dat  you  have  a  desk  fore  you  jest  like  de  white 
members.  Now  ole  man,  you  knows  I  would  like  most  power 
ful  to  come  and  see  you  and  look  at  you,  becase  I  knows  you 
looks  as  big  as  anybody  thar,  jest  like  you  yoost  to  be,  when 


CULLING S  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY.         153 


you  was  a  general  at  de  cawn  shuckin.  But  den  dat  Black 
Silk  dres  whar  I  bought  2nd  ban  in  June  Par  time  jes  fore 
Miss  Sally  war  married,  aint  fitten  to  war  up  in  Richmun 
among  the  1st  chop  ladies  of  de  cullered  'ciety.  Dey  all  tells 
me,  now  dat  you's  a  grate  man  an  a  conventioner,  I  must  be 
mo  pertickiller  and  talk  mo  properer.  I  thinks  so  too,  and  you 
dont  no  how  proud  de  ole  woman  wose,  when  you  tuck  her  to 
de  poles  on  'lection  day,  just  to  sho  her  what  de  ole  man  could 
do.  I  now  says  larf  and  harf  and  karnt  and  sharnt  and  makes 
de  chillern  call  me  Mar  and  you  Par  and  it  sounds  so  big  folks 
like.  But  sumtimes,  ole  man,  dey  karnt  hep  from  sayin 
Mammy  and  Daddy,  like  de  chillern  of  common  cawnfield  cul- 
lured  folks.  I  dont  let  em  sociate  wid  any  of  dat  clars  now 
you  may  believe.  Brudder  Peleg  Jones,  dat  sweet  talkin 
preecher  from  de  Norf,  who  speeks  so  butiful,  preeched  larst 
Sunday,  and  he  said  as  the  Queen  Shee  Bee,  a  black  lady,  cum 
out  of  Ethyopy  to  teach  King  Solomon  wisdom,  even  so  have 
de  cullered  peopul  cum  from  Afriky  to  teach  de  white  peopul 
of  Ameriky  knawledge  and  scents.  At  de  close  of  his  surmon 
he  handed  roun  de  hat,  and  I  put  in  de  quarter  note  I  got  for 
a  settin  of  de  ole  Speckle  hen's  eggs.  He  is  sich  a  butiful 
talker  and  buses  white  folks  so,  I  couldn't  help  it.  I  tell  you 
I  was  pipin  mad  tother  day  when  Brother  Peleg  was  to  see 
me,  and  Ben  cum  runnin  in  and  sed:  "Mammy,  may  Pete  and 
me  sop  de  skillet,"  insted  of  sayin  "Mar,  pies  marm  gin  to  us 
sum  bred  and  butter  wid  zarves  on  it."  Brudder  Ben  Wash- 
enton  says,  whar  Brudder  Sandy  Brown  tole  him  at  Sister 
Peggy's  funeral  that  you  war  paying  25  scents  ebery  day  for 
bode  in  Richmun.  Now  I  can  send  you  some  turnups  and 
greens  and  sich,  and  you  just  get  sum  other  member  to  put 
in  sum  middlin;  you  kin  save  at  leest  ten  cent  of  dat  ebery 
day,  ole  man,  to  hep  buy  July  An  de  Peanner  whar  you 
promised  her  fore  you  went  to  Richmun.  All  de  foks  is  gettin 
tired  waitin  for  de  land  and  wants  you  to  come  Chrismus  and 
tell  em  when  dey  will  git  it.  Brudder  Robin  says  he  knose 
dey  will  git  it  fore  time  to  sede  spring  oats.  He  says  he's 
gwine  up  to  Brander,  whar  he  yoost  to  live  and  git  40  acres  of 
lo  groun,  an  none  of  yo  fores  truck.  He  says  he  specs  you'll 
git  a  hundred  for  your  shar,  but  I'm  feard  all  de  good  land 
will  be  picked  out  fore  you  git  yourn,  as  all  of  em  down  here 
is  a  selectin  them.  Our  Betsey's  chile  is  smart,  but  not  very 
forred;  it  has  not  got  a  tooth  and  kannot  set  alone.  I  have 
had  no  newralgy  since  last  week,  and  hope  these  few  lines 
may  fine  you  in  de  enjoyment  of  de  same  blessin.  I  sign  my 
self  yourn  till  deth,  yo  fectionit  wife,  SARAy  AN, 


154         CULLINGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY. 

July  An  wants  you  to  bring  her  a  water  fowl  to  ware  on  the 
back  of  her  hed.  Brudder  Sandy  Brown  thinks,  ole  man,  you 
ought  to  ride  and  tie,  and  give  some  of  de  udder  brudders  a 
charnce  in  de  convention  arter  Chrismus.  I  dont  no  so  much 
bout  dat,  when  you  is  gettin  80  cents  a  day,  and  dat  aint  picked 
up  in  de  rode  every  day — you  know  taint,  ole  man.  July  An's 
schule  missis,  Brudder  Peleg's  dawter,  from  de  norf,  is  gwine 
to  sel  all  de  gals  at  Chrismus  her  pictur,  jest  for  1  dollar 
apiece,  and  she  wants  you  most  monstus  bad  to  sen  her  de 
munney  to  git  wun. 

Agin,  your  fectionit  wife, 

SARAY  AN. 


THE  OLD  CHURCH  ON  THE  HILL. 


Historic   Blandford. 

"This  church  is  one  of  the  most  imposing  specimens  of 
antiquity  in  Virginia.  It  is  built  of  brick  imported  from  Eng 
land  in  the  sixteenth  century.  The  walls  are  in  a  good  state 
of  preservation,  but  the  interior — floors,  ceiling,  windows, 
doors,  wainscoting  and  everything  else  is  gone — worn  piece 
meal  by  time.  The  roof  has  been  re-thatched  several  times. 
We  examined  the  antique  grave-stones  in  the  immediate 
vicinity  of  the  church  and  found  that  the  oldest  dated  back 
to  the  year  1702.  The  name  on  the  head-stone  had  been  ob 
literated  by  a  shell  fired  from  the  Federal  lines  during  the 
bombardment  of  Petersburg.  A  number  of  the  stones  and 
monuments  in  the  cemetery  are  broken  and  defaced  by  shot 
and  shell.  Some  severe  fighting  took  place  in  the  immediate 
vicinity  of  the  cemetery.  But  the  dead  slumbered  on.  They 
dreamed  not  of  the  war  and  desolation  and  misery  that  raged 
around  them.  Happy  dead! 

Though  wars  may  rage  and  potents  rave 
There's  p  sace  and  quiet  in  the  grave. 

The  following  lines  were  written  on  the  wall  of  the  south 
side  of  the  "Old  Bristol  Parish  Church,"  by  Mrs.  Schermer- 
horn  (nee  Henning) : 

Thou  art  crumbling  to  the  dust,  old  pile! 

Thou  art  hastening  to  thy  fall; 
And  round  thee  in  thy  lonliness 

Clings  the  ivy  to  thy  wall. 

The  worshippers  are  scattered  now, 

Who  met  before  thy  shrine, 
And  silence  reigns,  where  anthems  rose 

In  days  of  "  Auld  Lang  Syne." 


CULLINGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY.         156 

And  sadly  sighs  the  wandering  wind, 

Where  oft  in  years  gone  by 
Prayer  rose  from  many  a  heart  to  Him — 

The  Highest  of  the  High. 

The  tramp  of  many  a  busy  foot, 

That  sought  thy  aisles,  is  o'er; 
And  many  a  weary  around 

Is  stilled  forevermore. 

How  doth  ambition's  hopes  take  wing; 

How  droops  the  spirit  now  ? 
We  hear  the  distant  city's  din; 

The  dead  ?.re  mute  below. 

The  sun  which  shone  upon  their  paths, 

Now  gilds  their  lowly  graves; 
The  zephyrs  which  once  fanned  tLeir  brows, 

The  grass  above  them  waves. 

C~  !  could  we  call  the  many  back, 

Who've  gathered  here  in  vain; 
Who've  careless  roved  where  we  do  now; 

Who'll  never  meet  again. 

How  would  our  very  souls  be  stirred, 

To  meet  the  earnest  gaze 
Of  the  lovely  and  the  beautiful — 

The  lights  of  other  days. 
Petersburg,  Va.,  A.  D.  1843. 

Note. — Mrs.  Schermerhorn  was  a  daughter  of  Chief  Justice 
Henning  of  Richmond,  Va. 

This  is  authentic,  as  the  compiler's  father  saw  her  at  the 
time  of  writing.  Mrs.  Schermerhorn  was  a  near  relative  of 
William  F.  Spottswood,  deceased. 

There  has  been  much  discussion  regarding  the  authorship 
of  these  lines  on  Old  Blandford's  walls,  but  we  positively  as 
sert  that  Mrs.  Schermerhorn  wrote  them,  and  the  original  copy 
of  them  is  in  Petersburg,  Va. — Compiler. 


The  first  Memorial  Day  was  appointed  by  the  State  of  Mis 
sissippi  and  was  kept  by  the  "  Confederate  School,"  of  which 
Miss  Davidson  was  principal,  on  the  26th  of  May,  1866.  These 
eighty  pupils,  with  friends  and  sympathizers,  repaired  to  the 
graves  of  those  who  were  killed  on  the  day  of  the  evacuation 
of  Petersburg,  which  was  virtually  the  end  of  the  war.  After 
decorating  these  graves  the  party,  in  omnibusses,  with  flags 
draped  in  mourning,  and  participants  wearing  the  Southern 
colors,  visited  "  The  Crater,"  at  that  time  a  horrible  place,  as 
the  heads  of  those  who  fell  were  exposed  to  view,  these  mute 
faces  seeming  to  appeal  for  sepulture.  It  was  this  memorial 
that  Mrs.  Logan  saw  in  Petersburg,  Va.,  and  from  which  the 
idea  was  conceived  of  a  National  Memorial. 


156        CULLINGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY. 


DECORATION  DAY  ORIGIN. 


Mrs.  John  A.  Logan  Tells  What  Inspired  the  Idea. 


SIGHT  OF  SOUTHERN   DEVOTION. 


When  She  Told  Her  Husband  What  She  Saw  in  Old  Peters 
burg  (Va.)  Churchyard,  He  Decided  to  Have  a  Memorial 
Day  Set  Aside — Issued  an  Order  as  Commander  of  the 
G.  A.  R. 

(By  Mrs.  John  A.  Logan.) 

Thirty-five  years  after  the  first  Memorial  Day,  it  is  one  of 
the  most  beautiful  of  its  results  to  know  that  a  reunited  peo 
ple,  setting  aside  distinctions  of  class  and  parentage,  enter 
into  the  solemn  celebration  of  the  sacred  day  hand  in  hand 
and  heart  in  heart.  The  mounds  that  cover  the  forms  of  the 
hallowed  dead,  be  they  of  the  North  or  of  the  South,  are  alike 
the  points  of  pilgrimage  to  which  thousands  of  loyal  Ameri 
cans  bend  their  steps  to-day,  and  the  flowers  that  strew  the 
spots  where  the  heroes  of  two  causes  lie  have  but  one  purpose, 
and  speak  but  one  phrase — Honor  to  the  hero  dead. 

It  is  no  longer  a  question  of  who  was  right  and  who  was 
wrong  in  that  most  regrettable  conflict  of  history.  Time  and 
the  kindly  spirit  of  a  great  people  have  eradicated  the  bitter 
ness  of  a  generation  ago,  and  although  Decoration  Day  pri 
marily  belongs  to  the  Grand  Army  of  the  Republic  and  the 
dead  soldiers  of  the  Federal  Army,  we  have  one  great  class  of 
heroes — the  soldier  boys  who  laid  down  their  lives  for  what 
they  each  felt  to  be  a  sacred  cause.  There  are  the  graves  of 
these  men  in  every  cemetery  in  the  land,  and  to-day  they  will 
be  strewn  with  flowers  and  covered  with  the  flag  of  the  united 
nation,  animosities  dead,  feuds  forgotten,  but  one  sentiment 
paramount  in  the  breasts  of  the  loyal  people  who  garnish  them 
— honor  to  the  heroic  dead. 

Suggested  by  the  South. 

With  this  in  mind  it  is  especially  pleasant  to  know  that  the 
idea  of  Memorial  Day  was  unwittingly  suggested  by  the  devo 
tion  of  the  people  of  the  South  to  their  heroes.  In  the  early 
spring  of  1868  I  was  one  of  a  party,  the  other  members  of 
which  were  Col.  Charles  L.  Wilson,  of  Chicago;  Miss  Anna 
Wilson,  afterward  Mrs.  Horatio  May,  and  Miss  Lena  Farrar,  of 
Boston,  afterward  the  wife  of  Colonel  Wilson,  to  make  a  pil 
grimage  to  the  battlefields  of  Virginia.  General  Logan  had 
}ong  been  anxious  to  make  a  personal  inspection  of  this  sec- 


CULLING -S  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY.         159 

tion  of  the  country,  over  which  the  great  conflict  raged,  in  or 
der  to  enlarge  his  knowledge  of  the  entire  course  of  the  war, 
his  own  part  in  the  actions  having  been  in  the  West,  with  the 
Army  of  the  Tennessee.  Unfortunately,  however,  circum 
stances  prevented  his  accompanying  me,  and  he  did  not  see 
with  his  own  eyes  what  really  prompted  the  first  Decoration 
Day.  It  is  my  pleasure  to  revert  to  it  and  to  pay  a  just  tribute 
to  the  gentle  people  whose  acts  gave  me  the  inspiration  that 
resulted  in  the  Decoration  Day  of  to-day. 

No  one  who  has  never  made  the  pilgrimage  that  was  my  lot 
can  conceive  of  the  desolation  of  that  country  immediately 
after  the  war.  The  ruin  seemed  complete.  We  found  it  well 
nigh  impossible  to  get  any  sort  of  conveyances  from  points  on 
the  railroads  to  the  battlefields,  and  those  men  who  were  ac 
quainted  with  the  country  and  the  history  of  the  various  bat 
tles  were  all  too  busily  engaged  in  repairing  their  fallen  for 
tunes  to  spare  the  time  to  guide  us.  Yet,  there  was  no  spirit 
of  enmity  in  their  disinclination  to  help  us,  but  merely  the 
pitiful  tale  of  war's  disasters  and  the  necessity  for  constant 
toil  to  rebuild  the  waste  caused  by  four  years  of  bitter  strife. 
We  finally,  however,  managed  to  get  wagons  of  one  sort  and 
another  from  place  to  place  as  we  journeyed,  and  an  occa 
sional  guide  who  had  participated  in  the  battles  whose  sites 
we  were  visiting.  It  was  probably  the  most  interesting  ex 
perience  in  all  my  life,  yet  one  which  I  would  not  care  to  re 
peat,  for  not  until  then  had  I  known  the  true  purport  of  war. 
Incident  that  Gave  the  Inspiration. 

But  it  is  not  of  this  that  I  would  speak,  but  of  the  incident 
that  gave  me  the  inspiraion  which  resulted  in  Decoration  Day. 
We  were  in  Petersburg,  Va.,  and  had  taken  advantage  of  the 
fact  to  inspect  the  oldest  church  there,  the  bricks  of  which 
were  brought  from  England.  There  was  an  old  English  air 
all  about  the  venerable  structure,  and  we  passed  to  the  build 
ing  through  the  churchyard,  covered  with  graves,  after  the 
manner  of  English  churchyards.  The  weather  was  balmy  and 
springlike,  and  as  we  passed  through  the  rows  of  graves  I  no 
ticed  that  many  of  them  had  been  strewn  with  beautiful  blos 
soms  and  decorated  with  small  flags  of  the  dead  Confederacy. 
The  sentimental  idea  so  enwrapped  me  that  I  inspected  them 
more  closely  and  discovered  that  they  were  every  one  the 
graves  of  soldiers  who  had  died  for  the  Southern  cause.  The 
idea  seemed  to  me  to  be  a  beautiful  tribute  to  the  soldier  mar 
tyrs,  and  grew  upon  me  while  I  was  returning  to  Washington. 
General  Logan  was  at  that  time  Commander-in-Chief  of  the 
Grand  Army  of  the  Republic,  with  his  headquarters  in  Wash- 


160         CU LUNGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY. 

ington,  and  as  soon  as  he  met  me  at  the  station  I  told  him  of 
the  graves  of  the  soldiers  in  the  cemetery  in  the  churchyard  at 
Petersburg.  He  listened  with  great  interest,  and  then  said: 

"  What  a  splendid  idea  !  We  will  have  it  done  all  over  the 
country,  and  the  Grand  Army  shall  do  it.  I  will  issue  the  order 
at  once  for  a  National  Memorial  Day  for  the  decoration  of  the 
graves  of  all  those  noble  fellows  who  died  for  their  country." 

He  immediately  entered  into  conference  with  several  of  his 
aids,  with  a  view  to  selecting  a  date  which  should  be  kept 
from  year  to  year.  He  realized  that  it  must  be  at  a  time  when 
the  whole  country  was  blooming  with  flowers,  and  May  30  was 
finally  selected  as  the  best  season  for  the  annual  observance. 
It  was  not  too  late  for  the  warmer  States  or  too  early  for  the 
cooler  ones. 


A  FRAGMENT  FROM   DESCRIPTION  OF  FIRST  CON- 
FEDERATE    MEMORIAL. 

The  skies  wept  slightly,  just  enough  to  allay  the  dust  and 
typify  nature  weeping  at  the  graves  of  the  dead.  Petersburg- 
awoke  as  from  a  dream,  and  the  dews  of  Heaven  lay  heavily 
on  old  Blandford  Cemetery.  In  every  house  and  hamlet  was 
a  floral  preparation;  in  every  home  was  a  mother,  wife  and 
maiden  with  soul  enwrapped  in  the  proceedings  which  were  to 
make  the  day  a  memorial  indeed.  The  willing  hands  of  the 
sterner  sex  that  grasped  the  ready  implements,  had  turfed  the 
graves  and  prepared  them  to  receive  the  floral  tributes.  Peters 
burg,  shot-torn  and  shell-mangled,  sounded  forth  once  again — 
since  freedom  from  war — the  joy-giving  bells  of  church  and 
town  hall.  This  called  forth  the  assemblage  of  women,  citi 
zens,  children  and  soldiery,  with  fire  companies,  civic  organi 
sations,  etc.,  to  form  the  grand  procession.  The  flowers, 
wreaths  and  mottoes  that  were  carried  in  line  were  as  gorge 
ous  and  beautiful  as  they  were  abundant.  Every  garden  and 
hillside  was  robbed  to  pay  tribute  to  valor  and  endurance. 
Viewed  from  the  brow  of  the  hill  approaching  the  cemetery, 
this  grand  procession  was  resplendent  its  entire  length  with 
wreaths,  garlands,  banners  and  bunches  of  evergreen  and  ivy. 
Captain  Richard  Pegram  was  chosen  to  make  a  suitable  ad 
dress  to  those  present. 

Captain  Pegram's  Address. 

No  family  won  greater  distinction  in  the  Confederate  Army 
than  that  of  Pegram.  General  John  Pegram  was  killed  near 
Petersburg — having  married  Miss  Hettie  Gary  only  a  month 
before.  Col.  William  Pegram,  Colonel  of  Artillery,  was  killed 


CULLINGS  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY.         161 

on  the  retreat  from  Petersburg.  Captain  Richard  B.  Pegram, 
a  gallant  officer,  and  gentleman  of  the  old  school,  commanded 
Pegram's  Battery,  which  was  almost  annihilated  by  the  ex 
plosion  at  the  Crater;  and  to  him  it  devolved  to  address  this 
multitude  of  upturned  faces;  upturned  to  God  for  loving  guid 
ance  to  go  forward  in  the  new  and  untried  paths.  He  began: 

"Not  quite  eighteen  months  ago  yon  entrenchments  now 
vacant  were  filled  with  soldiers  and  bristling  with  bayonets. 
The  little  fearless  band  that  held  these  nearest  lines  and  en 
trenchments  were  the  veterans  of  General  Lee.  The  word 
passed  the  round  one  night,  '  Fort  Steadman  must  be  at 
tacked.'  Silently  and  in  the  darkness  each  man  made  his 
preparations,  both  for  time  and  eternity.  It  seemed  to  us  a 
forlorn  hope.  But  a  dash;  a  rattle  of  musketry;  a  thunder- 
burst  and  roll  of  cannon,  and  Fort  Steadman  was  taken.  The 
Southern  cross  and  banner  was  placed  on  the  ramparts,  but 
the  storm  of  shot,  shell  and  schrapnel  that  opens  from  all 
sides,  tell  us  that  the  fort  is  untenable  and  we  must  retire. 
Slowly  and  sadly  we  fall  back,  as  we  fought  inch  by  inch,  and 
planting  the  ground  with  our  noblest  dead,  their  feet  to  the 
field  and  their  face  to  the  foe.  We  assemble  to-day — this  me 
morial  day,  over  this  open  grave  that  has  been  prepared  to  re 
ceive  the  bones  of  those  who  died  in  that  carnage.  To  you, 
ladies,  we  consign  them,  undistinguishable  as  they  are.  They 
could  not  be  in  more  fitting  hands,  for  during  many  weary 
months  they  withstood  the  enemy  at  your  very  gates.  With 
feelings  of  deep  veneration  and  preferment  let  us  approach 
and  decorate  their  single  grave.  Here,  in  the  sight  of  that 
grim  fortress  before  which  they  fell,  and  died;  here,  in  sight 
of  the  spires  which  they  defended,  let  us  commemorate  them 
with  flowers  and  bury  them  anew.  There  is  a  sad  pleasure  in 
it  all,  for  we  are  commencing  the  sad  work  of  collecting  and 
giving  sepulture  to  our  dead  and  loved  ones.  We  have  fought 
and  failed,  and  our  flag  is  furled,  but  we  will  forever  cherish 
the  glorious  names  that  were  made  in  our  hallowed  past,  and 
the  world  will  give  us  credit  for  it.  The  brightest  page  of  our 
history  will  be  the  one  that  records  their  noble  deeds  of  sav 
ing.  Let  the  sons  and  daughters  of  Petersburg  make  frequent 
visits  to  this  shrine. 

And  spring,  with  flowery  fingers,  cold, 
Oft  come  to  seek  this  hallowed  mold. 

The  women  of  the  South  who  have  never  faltered  in  the  di- 


162          CULLING S  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY. 


rest  disasters  of  their  country,  will  keep  the  soldier's  sepul 

chre,  and  with  this  we  know: 
M  OW 

Hero,  sleep,  the  brave  who  sink  to  rest 
By  all  their  country's  honors  blest." 

vw7vA0 

The  Rev.  John  Cosby  delivered  a  sermon  suitable  to  the  oc 
casion,  in  the  old  church,  and  a  band  rendered  suitable  music. 
The  large  throng  gathered  for  the  solemn  exercises,approached 
the  old  ruins  preceded  by  the  two  schools  of  Miss  Davidson 
and  Miss  Batte.  In  a  few  moments  the  old  church  walls  were 
filled  for  the  first  time  in  perhaps  one  hundred  years.  This 
old  temple  of  God  re-echoed  with  the  praises  to  Father,  Son 
and  Holy  Ghost,  closing  the  services.  Around  stood  the  old 
cedars,  old  "as  the  hills,"  or  the  old  church  itself.  Through 
their  branches  came  the  sighing  of  the  wind,  and  spread  out 
in  a  panorama  of  death  lay  the  graves  opened  yesterday  and 
those  closed  a  hundred  years  back.  How  man  sinks  in  com 
parison  with  the  Infinite,  who  is  yesterday,  to-day  and  forever. 
Thus  we  turn  from  the  city  of  the  dead  to  that  of  the  living — 
this  once  beleaguered  city — torn  by  shot  and  shell,  embowered 
amid  the  trees,  its  spires  and  towers  pointing  to  Heaven,  as 
in  thankful  silence  for  its  deliverance.  During  the  day  busi 
ness  had  been  entirely  suspended,  with  suitable  mottoes  on 
doors  of  stores  and  business  offices.  It  was  a  veritable  Sab 
bath  in  memory  of  the  dead.  A  tablet  in  memory  of  the  loved 
ones  who  fell  in  the  9th  of  June  fight  was  placed  in  the  old 
church,  and  on  it  were  the  names  of — 

H.  A.  BLANKS,  GEORGE  B.  JONES, 

W.  H.  HARDEE,  JOHN  E.  FRIEND, 

WAYLES  HURT,  G.  STANBLY, 

I.  G.  SCOTT,  N.  HOAG, 

I.  W.  BELLINGHAM,  W.  CROWDER, 

WILLIAM  DANIEL,  WILLIAM  BANNISTER. 

These  men  and  boys  left  their  firesides,  their  desks  and 
counting  rooms  to  be  brought  back  at  nightfall  to  their  loved 
ones — cold  and  dead.     Think  of  it  now  if  you  can,  and  remem 
ber  that- 
Fearless  on  that  dread  day — for  us, 
They  stood  in  front  of  the  fray — for  us ; 
Fresh  tears  should  fall  forever  o'er  all 
Who  fell  while  wearing  the  gray — for  us. 


CULLING^  FROM  THE  CONFEDERACY.         163 

DECORATING  THE  GRAVES  OF  THE  CONFEDERATE 
DEAD. 

"A  people  who  forget  the  memory  of  their  dead  deserve  to 
be  forgotten  themselves. — Father  Ryan. 

By  BPPIB  B.  CASTLIN. 

While  bright  clouds  gather  round  the  rising  sun, 
Like  Southern  banners  in  their  day  of  pride; 

A  labor  sweet  of  love  is  to  be  done. 

This  day  we  thank  Thee,  Father,  that  upon 

These  precious  heads,  these  hearts  so  true  and  tried, 
No  trouble  falls. 

The  trumpet's  stirring  blast  wakes  not  their  sleep  ! 

Nor  war's  wild  note;  nor  wail  of  glories  past 
Can  reach  these  soldier  hearts — and  we  who  weep 
Need  not  a  glittering  marble  shaft  to  keep 

Their  image  fresh — thoughts  of  their  deeds  will  last 
Till  life  is  done. 

We  kneel  and  thank  Thee,  that  their  tents  are  spread 

On  fame's  eternal  camping  ground  !     No  foe 
Disturbs  sweet  dreams,  nor  calls  to  arms  !     They're  led 
Through  pastures  sweet  and  green,  by  One  who  fed 
And  nurtured  Hagar's  son  through  all  his  woe 
And  journey  lone. 

But,  Father,  'tis  yet  night  with  many  a  poor 

Lone  heart — a  night  of  storm ;  though  years  have  sown 
Bright,  blooming  flowers  and  herbage  sweet,  thick  o'er 
Their  lonely  graves,  far  distant  seems  that  shore 

Those  loved  feet  press — and  widowed  hearts  still  mourn 
Their  buried  joys. 

Fond  mother,  as  in  prayer  you  kneel,  e'en  now 
Your  boy  is  resting  'neath  sweet  olive  shades; 

His  lips  are  laved  in  waters  pure; 

His  brow  is  cool  and  damp  with  Hermon's  dew.    Ah,  how, 
Bright  spirit,  could  we  call  thee  from  these  glades 
To  see  our  woe  ? 

Dear  Father  !  as  we  come  this  day  to  spread 

Our  humble  tributes  on  each  lowly  grave, 
Lock  not  Thy  heart;  but  as  we  bow  the  head 
In.  meek  submission,  let  thy  grace  be  shed 

On  all  these  mourning  ones.     We  comfort  have — 
They  rest  with  Thee. 


FINIS. 


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